


Just to See You Smile

by BennyNotBunny



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drunkenness, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Original Character(s), Other, Sexual Assault, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 42,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BennyNotBunny/pseuds/BennyNotBunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At 21 Cyrene, has had more than enough time to agree to a suitable marriage. When she refuses, her parents force the issue. Fleeing from the prospect of an arranged marriage in Cyrodiil, our main character crosses the border into Skyrim, under the cover of night, with help from her intended fiancee, and races into the freedom of the unknown. The decision turns out to be just one of her many regrets. Faced with the reality of the rebellion and its leader, she joins the Legion and makes a name for herself, before seeking to leave a life filled with violence and bloodshed behind her. She finally makes her way to Winterhold, Cauldor by her side, intent on finding redemption by becoming a healer. Conflict and bloodshed seem to shadow her every step, however, and the burden of leadership comes with a terrible price. With more regret than hope, and once again seeking redemption, this time for a life she failed to save, Cyrene finds her way to the Companions and meets Vilkas-a man with his own darkness and regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and My Brother's Healer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farkas approves.

* * *

Prolugue: 

At 21 Cyrene, has had more than enough time to agree to a suitable marriage. When she refuses, her parents force the issue. Fleeing from the prospect of an arranged marriage in Cyrodiil, our main character crosses the border into Skyrim, under the cover of night, with help from her intended fiancee, and races into the freedom of the unknown. The decision turns out to be just one of her many regrets. Faced with the reality of the rebellion and its leader, she joins the Legion and makes a name for herself, before seeking to leave a life filled with violence and bloodshed behind her. The lives she's taken weigh heavily upon her and she travels to Winterhold to study Restoration, and perhaps earn redemption as a healer. Conflict and bloodshed seem to shadow her every step, however, and the burden of leadership comes with its own terrible price. Conflict and bloodshed seem to shadow her every step, however, and the burden of leadership comes with its own terrible price.

Once again seeking redemption, this time for a life she failed to save, she finds her way to the Companions and meets Vilkas-a man with his own darkness and regrets; a man who seems untouchable, brilliant, and stong enough to withstand the violent storm that has been her life. His strength and violent nature together with the spirit of the wolf inside him, draws her to him like a moth to a flame. We pick up her story 10 years after her flight into Skyrim. She has been with the Companions for some time, the dragon conflict has begun, and Cyrene is about to find herself trapped once again between duty, regret and desire.

* * *

 

 

_“Just to see you smile,_

_I’d do anything_

_that you wanted me to._

_When all is said and done,_

_I’d never count the cost;_

_It’s worth all that’s lost,_

_just to see you smile”_

* * *

Farkas could not remember a time when his brother looked more content. Vilkas was still deeply troubled by the beast-blood and Kodlak’s failing health, but there were moments, like the one unfolding before Farkas now, when Vilkas seemed as carefree and happy as he’d ever been. Farkas watched as the honey-haired, blue eyed reason for that happiness dodged away from a slash of his brother’s great sword. She dodged the first blow without issue, but her heavy weapon slowed her down and she didn’t turn quickly enough. A chuckle rumbled deep in Farkas’s chest as the flat of his brother’s practice sword swatted her on the behind and she let out an indignant yelp. She stumbled and dropped her sword, immediately dropping into a low crouch. 

Farkas knew what would come next, but no matter how many times he saw it happen, the speed of it still amazed him. One moment she would be in a crouch on the ground, eyes flashing, and in the next she’d be a blur of color as she leapt through the air at her opponent. Over the last few months, Farkas had seen his brother try to counter this strike in a myriad of ways. He tried dodging her, which never worked – once she got going it seemed like she could bounce off every available surface – leading Farkas to wonder, at one point, if it was possible for a human to be part Khajiit. Vilkas had also tried withstanding her rush, but she always found a way to throw him off balance. Most notably, there was the time when she wrapped her leg around his thigh and nipped his ear as she swung around his body and swept his knees from under him. 

On that occasion, Farkas had braced himself for his brother’s rage, and was already halfway into the training yard to shield their newest recruit, when he heard something that he hadn’t heard in a long time. When it began, it sounded as though his brother was choking and Farkas was gripped first by worry, and then disbelief, as his brother’s face came into view. Farkas had actually stopped, and cocked his head to one side to watch the interesting things happening on his twin’s face. 

At first the familiar angry scowl was there, but then Vilkas’s face started to twitch as though he were about to sneeze. Farkas had glanced down at the blonde Imperial who was crouched over his brother. She’d had an endearingly hopeful expression on her face. He’d spared a moment to wonder how Vilkas could be angry with her when she was looking at him like that, and then a wide grin had split Farkas’s face as he realized that his brother was trying desperately to keep from laughing. Farkas had perked up considerably at that and crouched next to the young woman to look down at his brother, his face a hopeful mirror of hers. 

For Vilkas, the combination of the two of them looking down at them like that, and the ridiculousness of the way he’d ended up flat on his back in the training yard, proved to be too much. His laughter, so long dormant that it felt unfamiliar in his throat, found its way to his lips at last. It started with a chuckle, but when the two people above him looked at each other and then back at him with crazed grins on their faces, he’d given up the fight and laughed out loud; calling them a couple of idiots as they’d pulled him to his feet and headed into Jorrvaskr for dinner. That incident seemed to mark a change in Vilkas, and Farkas was grateful for it. When he’d relayed the story to Kodlak later, it seemed to lift a weight off the old warrior’s shoulders. He’d laughed proclaiming that the Imperial was “good for the boy." 

Farkas was drawn out of his momentary reverie by the sound of his brother’s practice sword clattering loudly to the ground. He looked up to see Vilkas grinning wickedly at the blonde who was slowly circling him looking for an opening. Farkas grinned and rubbed his hands together in anticipation.  _This should be good!_  

The slight weight of Aela’s hand on his shoulder distracted him. 

“Brother, you need to some inside. We have a . . . situation to deal with.” Aela’s voice was calm and confident as always, but he could tell she was more than a little displeased. With a last glance at the pair in the yard, he got up from his chair on the porch and followed Aela inside. 

 

* * *

Out in the training yard, Cyréne was watching her shield-brother carefully. He was up to something. If his wicked grin wasn’t evidence enough, the confidence in his ice blue eyes was certainly proof. Usually, when they began this dance, he was cagey and intense, eyes watching her warily for her next move. Cyréne circled him cautiously.

_Training with two-handed weapons had never been important to her. She excelled with a sword and shield, and could use either of them to block or kill. She was dangerously accurate with a bow, and steadily improving thanks to frequent hunts with Aela. In addition, she wasn’t built for a great-sword and wasn’t patient enough. In battle, she needed to feel able to move, to avoid hits rather than absorb them, and to strike quickly and then get out of the way. The far-flung scenario she’d spun for Vilkas  when she asked for his help - of being stranded someday in an enemy encampment with only a two-handed weapon available - was just a way to secure her shield-brother’s cooperation.  No . . . asking Vilkas to train her had been for completely different reasons._

Vilkas turned cautiously. He watched Cyréne as she orbited him looking for an opening.

_Much to his surprise, this little game of theirs had become something he looked forward to. Of course, there wasn’t much about her that didn’t surprise him at some point. He’d been having a particularly fucked-up day when she materialized from nowhere into the lower hall of Jorrvaskr. It did not help his mood in the least to have the beauty he’d been admiring around Whiterun for weeks effectively ignore him when she entered Kodlak’s chambers. His barbed comments had barely drawn a disinterested flicker of her eyes in his direction. Instead, she and Kodlak had regarded each other intently – her attention fixed on the old man as though searching for a hidden meaning behind his every word._

She was couched now, all lithe muscle and coiled energy. He assumed an evasive stance and she sprang for him. Vilkas stood swiftly and opened his arms. Catching her, he wrapped her to him. She released a small gasp of surprise and the two of them tumbled to the ground laughing.

“I knew you were up to something, Shield-brother!” 

Vilkas snorted. “For all the good it did you. Now perhaps, I’ve managed to prove my point?” 

“What point? You had a point?” 

He rolled his eyes and stood, helping her to her feet. “My  _point_ , that pouncing like a saber cat—no,  _kitten,_ ” he corrected himself, “pouncing like a saber- _kitten_  is not a viable strategy in battle . . . unless you’re fighting a ball of yarn.”

 “Or, you,” she countered. 

He made a grab for her and she danced out of his reach.

Grinning impishly, she started meowing at him. “Meow! Come on Vilky-Wilky, be my ball of yarn! Meow!” 

Vilkas made another grab for her, which she evaded. 

“Stop making cat sounds!” he growled, follwing her. “People will think you’re mad. And don’t call me that!!” 

Cyréne continued to move just out of his reach. “Sounds like  _you’re_ the one who’s mad, Vilky-Wilky,” she teased. 

Vilkas lunged for her. “I’m beginning to think your second strategy may be a viable one, though.” 

“And, what strategy is that?” she questioned, slowing slightly. 

“Death by annoyance” he answered, finally managing to grab her by a wrist. 

Cyréne made a face at him, and started twisting to get away from him. “You  _would_  think that strategy was better,” she grumbled, “than being a saber kitten.” 

“And why is that?” he mocked. He captured her other wrist and trapped them both in one of his hands. 

Cyréne’s face grew serious and she stopped struggling. “Isn’t it obvious?” 

Her shield-brother arched a dark eyebrow at her, indicating that clearly, it was not. 

Cyréne searched his face for a moment. “Cats are milk drinkers.” 

Vilkas closed his eyes and dragged his free hand down his face, willing himself not to laugh at her terrible joke. “ _You_ , are an idiot.” 

“An idiot you just chased to the top of Skyforge.” 

Vilkas glanced up and found that his pursuit had indeed taken then to the top of the stairs of the Skyforge where Eorlund stood frowning disapprovingly at them. Still in possession of both his shield-sister’s wrists, Vilkas knelt and slung Cyréne over his shoulder. 

She shrieked with laughter, “No, no, no….” 

Vilkas smirked to himself and started down the steps, jostling her as much as possible on the way down.

Vilkas set Cyrene back on her feet once they reached the training yard and the two of them began tidying up the area and putting away their discarded practice weapons. He watched her casual movements in the late afternoon sunlight. She was tall, for an Imperial, but the top of her head barely cleared his shoulder. He suspected her honey-blonde hair fell in messy waves halfway to her waist when unbound. Although, she mostly kept it pulled back in some sort of braid, strands were always escaping. Her braid had hit him in the face enough times during their sparring for him to notice that it was actually multiple shades of blonde.

She had a habit of absentmindedly twirling a lock or two through her fingers when she was reading or daydreaming. He found it both annoying and distracting. He’d spent the better part of a rainy afternoon trying to get through a copy of “Dwemer History and Culture”, only to find himself mentally labeling and cataloging the different shades of her hair from “Honningbrew Mead” to “Sweet Roll Icing”.

Aggravated with himself, but still unable to concentrate on his book, he’d switched to compiling a mental list of all the ways she irritated him. It was long.

The light leather armor she wore to train with him hugged her body only loosely. She never wore anything formfitting. Instead, she slouched around in baggy men’s’ trousers and multiple layers of tunics and shirts, griping to herself about her intense hatred of the “damn Nordic climate” and its “constant state of frigid.”  

               She picked up the last of their mess and turned toward him. For a moment the glow of the fading sunset landed on her and the world seemed to slow. Storm-cloud blue eyes flickered beneath sooty lashes, unsettlingly hypnotic against the golden tan of her skin. A slight breeze lifted golden locks away from her neck. Pouty coral lips parted into a white smile. His heart hammered in his chest and his mouth felt suddenly dry. The wolf inside snapped to attention. Realization began to work its way into his mind. It had been a long time since he allowed a woman to be more than a shield-sister or bed-warmer, but something about Cyrene was drawing him forward, out of the shadows and into the light of her dumb jokes and warm smile and easy affection. She was cold at first, but after they’d been paired as shield-siblings, his sharp insults and vocal disapproval of her presence had been met with only gentle teasing and correction of whatever he was complaining about. She took his advice to heart, and his insults with a grain of salt. He’d pulled back for months, waiting for her to prove dishonorable or untrustworthy, waiting for her to lose interest and move on, waiting for a betrayal that had never come. He’d paced the hall during one of the last full moons, restless, furious, and frustrated – the wolf throwing himself at the bars of his human cage, howling to be released. He’d been particularly brutal with his blows in their training that day, so he was surprised to see her appear from the whelp room and approach him. Before he could bark an insult at her, she’d stood on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around his neck and brushed a soft kiss across his cheek. Her fingers stroked soothingly through his hair and he found himself embracing her as she quietly assured him that no matter what the problem was, she was there for him, always, and it was going to be alright. Shocked, the wolf had quieted and Cyrene had led them both down the hall to his room. She left, but appeared again moments later with a rare book, he’d never seen. Handing it to him, she’d smiled and made herself comfortable on his bed, patting the spot beside her with a smirk. They’d spent the rest of the night reading and discussing the contents, him stretched out with his head in her lap, reading aloud, with her fingers brushing gently through his hair, occasionally making a comment so insightful that he’d been forced to reevaluate his entire opinion of her. As the golden light glinted off her hair he allowed himself to wonder for the first time, if there was more to be had than what he’d allowed himself.

Cyrene stepped out of the sunlight and bumped him with her hip. “Hey! Snap out of it Vilkas!”

Time sped back up. He gave himself a mental shake and frowned down at her.

Ignoring his scowl, she leaned against him and slid an arm around his waist. “Shield-Brother, your training has worn me out, as always. Thank you for your help, but now – I’m famished.” As if on cue, her stomach growled loudly.

Smirking, Vilkas slung an arm over her shoulders and steered her towards the porch. “You’re welcome, of course. I too, am famished. Let’s go get something to eat.”

Cyréne snagged an apple off the main table as they walked across the porch, only to have Vilkas snatch it away from her and take a bite.

“Hey, that’s mine!”

He dangled it above her head.

“HEY!” she snapped again, “Give that back!”

They were still scuffling for it when they entered Jorrvaskr. Cyréne was trying to climb Vilkas like a tree, to retrieve her snack, but his heavy arm across her shoulders was severely hindering her progress. Meanwhile, he’d taken another bite and was describing its delicious taste to her.

 

* * *

 

 

**“I already told you, you’re not welcome here! Now get out!”**

Cyréne couldn’t help but flinch at the tone of Farkas’s voice. She became suddenly very aware of the tension in the room. Her slender blonde eyebrows knit together in concern. Vilkas dropped the apple in her still-open hand and started toward the front doors. Farkas’s large form blocked whoever he was talking to from view.

“Leave!” Farkas repeated, “No one wants you here!”

A woman’s voice, silky and seductive, answered him. “Your brother might disagree, Farkas.”

Vilkas froze mid-stride, and felt his blood run cold. Curious and concerned, Cyréne slid back under his arm, and wrapped her arm around his waist again, supporting him as he seemed to stumble.

“ _You,_ stay away from him!” Farkas growled.

Cyréne wondered briefly who was stupid enough not to realize they were about to get pounded by a large Farkas-fist, when she accidently bumped into the side-table by the door causing a bowl to clatter loudly to the floor. She closed her eyes and cursed under her breath. She started to bend and retrieve the bowl, but Vilkas’s grip on her shoulder tightened.

“What?!” she said, a little louder than she meant to. She glanced up at him, expecting to see him glowering down at her. Instead, he was staring dazedly into space. Cyréne’s stomach growled urgently. The heated exchange continued endlessly across the room and she let out an impatient sigh.

“Vilkas,” she whispered.

He didn’t respond.

“Vilkas”

Nothing.

“Vilkas!”

 Finally she stomped on his foot and he looked down at her. “Look,” she whispered, “I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’m tired and I’m hungry and I don’t feel like waiting around all night.”

A hurt look flickered across his face and she continued quickly, “No Dummy! I’m not leaving you. I just mean make a decision – push forward or fall back.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Lyrical credit at the beginning to Mark Nesler & Tony Martin  
> **This story starts slowly, but picks up within a few chapters**  
> ***I own Cyrene, Brand, Shaye and Kalv. I don't own Skyrim, or any of its characters. But if I did, Vilkas and I would never leave my bunk. ;)**
> 
> I originally posted parts of this story over a year ago on a fan fiction site, as my very first work, and then took it down when someone revealed my "real" identity and told people I barely know all about it. Since it contains explicit material, as well as some chapters that were pretty emotional to write - it pretty much washed me in shame - especially when they started making fun of it. It was actually kind of a huge deal to have something so "private" put on display for people who were definitely not in my trusted circle of friends, and I kind of freaked out, lost every ounce of confidence, slid into a depression, and refused to write anything more than a few chapters for almost a year.  
> I've made the foray (slowly and quietly) back into writing again, and finally had the courage to open these old files and re-read this story. I fell in love with it all over again - a year later, and realized I want a resolution for it. So, I'll be making touch-ups and slight changes and will be re-posting it as I finish it. It probably won't be the broad sweeping series it was originally planned to be, but the main characters will at least have their stories brought to some sort of closure. Then, maybe I can finally move on to the other characters stuck in my head. A


	2. Fall Back

_Fall back_ she decided for him.

“Come on Yarn, this saber-kitten needs some dinner.”

Cyréne eased Vilkas backward out of the doors and onto the porch. He sat down on the nearest chair, the same stunned look still plastered on his face.

“Vilkas, come on!” She clapped her hands. “Let’s go! You’ve got money, right?”

Finally she threw her hands up in exasperation. “Oh for Talos’ sake, wait here.”

Cyréne eased back into Jorrvaskr and slipped down to the main living quarters, unnoticed. She stopped in the room she shared with Ria and Njada, grabbed a small bag of coins off of her nightstand, and began to rifle through the chest at the foot of her bed. She shoved the coins, a small sack, and some clean clothes into a leather satchel, and then slipped down the hall toward Vilkas’s room to repeat the process.

 She opened the door to find a drop-dead gorgeous woman sitting on Vilkas’s bed. Her mouth dropped open slightly as her thoughts began to race.

_This woman is beautiful! What is she? Half Nord, half Brenton, maybe . . . are her eyes . . . purple? That is unfair. No one’s hair can really be that shiny – it looks like ebony, and perfect adorable curls everywhere? Wait, this cannot be the person Farkas was yelling at._

Cyréne realized she was staring and put on a friendly smile. “Um, hi there.” _Brilliant, Genius!_   “I’m sorry to interrupt . . . whatever this is. I’m just grabbing some clothes, and I’ll be out of your way.”

“Is Vilkas with you?”

Cyréne looked around. “Nope, doesn’t look like it.”

She rummaged quickly through the dresser, pulling out some brown leather trousers and a white tunic. When she turned to find the Dark-Haired-Dibella-Come-to-Life standing right behind her, she nearly jumped out of her own skin. _Whoa!_

“Where is my husband?”

 _Ooooooh . . . . shit!._   “Um sorry, can’t help you there.”

Cyréne grabbed a pair of leather boots and hurried down the hall. “Bye” she called over her shoulder.

“Come back here,” the woman yelled.

 _What in Oblivion!?_ Cyréne sped up, exited the living quarters and leaned against the door. “Wow.”

She nearly yelped our loud when it began rattling behind her.

“Where is my husband!?” the woman screamed. “Tell me, right now!”

 _Probably hiding from his bat-shit-crazy wife_. _Or . . . possibly, waiting for me to take him to dinner._

Tilma, who was halfway down the stairs, stopped and looked at Cyréne, brow furrowed. “What is it, dear?”

Cyréne grabbed Tilma’s broom and shoved it through both handles of the double doors. More muffled screaming came from the other side of the door. “Let me out!”

Cyréne laughed nervously. “Well you see, Tilma . . . the thing is . . .”

Tilma reached out a time-worn hand and patted Cyréne’s cheek. “Oh don’t you worry about a thing, dear. I never liked that woman anyway. Besides, no one can fault an old woman for being a little hard of hearing.”

Cyréne grinned and dropped a quick kiss on the elderly servant’s cheek as she darted up the stairs. “Tilma, you’re a peach!”

The maid smiled fondly at Cyréne’s back and then leaned towards the double doors. ‘What’s that, dear? You’ll have to speak up, I’m afraid I’m a bit hard of hearing.”

* * *

 

Cyréne vaulted out of the back doors of Jorrvaskr and onto the porch. She shoved a bundle of clothes at Vilkas and then grabbed his hand and jerked him out of his chair, dragging him behind her.

“Come on!”

“Where are we going?”

“Don’t worry about it, just hurry up. I’m starving!”

Vilkas sighed, but allowed himself to be pulled along at a jog.

When they left the gates of Whiterun, Cyréne slowed their pace and blew out a breath, “Geeze!”

“Where are we going?” Vilkas repeated. “I thought you were hungry.”

“I _am_ hungry,” she snapped, “but I’m also filthy and tired, and I’m not going to the Bannered Mare looking like a vagrant and smelling gross.”

“And you’re bringing me along for this, why?” he frowned.

“Because, we might have to spend the night there, and I’m not sharing a bed with you if you’re filthy.”

Vilkas stopped in his tracks, nearly topping Cyréne over backwards. “And _WHY_ , would we have to spend the night there?” he demanded.

Cyréne dropped his hand, looked away, and kept walking. “I dunno . . . it just may come up later.”

“Cyréne,” he said, warningly.

She walked a little faster.

“CYRENE! Get back here and tell me what you’ve done!”

She broke into a run. “At least he’s wearing heavy armor,” she muttered to herself. She chanced a glance over her shoulder and saw a very irritated Vilkas hot on her heels. _Damn!_

“I mean it, Cyréne! Stop!”

“Catch me if you can!” she called, and darted into the trees.

Vilkas growled and raced after her.

Cyréne veered through the darkening woods and grinned when she heard Vilkas cursing.

“Where are you, Woman?!”

She dug a small sack out of her satchel before setting it down carefully on a rock and then heading toward the small waterfall-fed pool in the distance, stripping off clothing and armor on the way.

Vilkas was vowing to throttle her when he heard a splash followed by a loud shriek.

Moments later he crashed into the clearing, wolf and man searching for danger.

“Sweet Talos, that’s cold!”

The wolf huffed in relief and flopped back down in the corner of his mind. Vilkas closed his eyes and counted to 10, and then 20, and then to 10 again. _I will not kill her, I will not kill her_. He opened his eyes and stared down from the rocky ledge. Cyréne was looking up at him. She was treading water in a small pool with a stupid grin on her face. He stared up at the sky. _Idiot._

“Come on in, Vilky-Wilky,” she called

“I told you not to call me that!”

“Fine! Stay up there and be dirty. You can sleep on the floor!”

Vilkas spared another glance in her direction. It was a bright night, but the large trees surrounding the clearing shadowed the pool rendering the crystal clear water mostly opaque. Slivers of moonlight filtered through their branches and danced off the small waterfall and the surrounding wet rocks. Cyréne’s wet hair floated around her in the water, covering her shoulders and fanning out around her arms. A trail of dark objects on the ground caught his attention; it took a moment for him to realize that it was her leather training armor . . . and her breast band . . .and her smalls.

“Are you _naked_?” he choked out.

“Well, yeah. That’s normally how people get clean. I brought you a towel, it’s in my satchel.”

Vilkas regarded her, incredulously. “You’re naked - in a freezing cold pond, I might add – and you want me to join you?”

He could almost feel her roll her eyes in the semi-darkness.

She sighed heavily. “Don’t be such a baby! If you’re afraid I’m going to pounce on you, don’t worry. Your virtue is safe with me.”

“One day,” Vilkas ground out, “I. Am going. To choke you.”

“Come on!” she teased,” I’m not even looking. Are you shy?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped.

He stripped off his armor with practiced fingers and dove off the rock. Cyréne giggled when he came up sputtering.

“Shor’s Bones! It’s freezing!”

Vilkas gritted his teeth waiting for his body to adjust somewhat to the temperature. True to his Nord blood, it didn’t take long.

A few moments later the water rippled around him in the near darkness and Cyréne handed him soap, from arm’s length. “I’m getting out now. No peeking.” 

“Please,” he scoffed.

“I mean it Vilkas. No wolf vision, no sneak peeks, nothing. I hope you have more respect for me than that.”

“Of course I do,” he said, slightly offended.

He turned his back to her and began washing. He heard her step out of the water a moment later, and smirked when he found himself tempted to peek.

When he emerged, she was dressed and sitting on a large rock with her back to the pond, combing her fingers through her damp hair. She didn’t turn around and he watched her wind the long strands into a loose bun and secure it on top of her head as he toweled off and dressed, and then began to gather their discarded armor.

“Ready?” he said.

“Absolutely! I hope Hulda has some of that beef stew I like.”

She hopped off the rock and reached for her armor. Vilkas swatted her hand away. They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes before he cleared his throat.

“Now. Tell me why, exactly, we may be spending the night at the Mare.”

“Wow, look at those stars!” Cyrene breathed. “You know a lot about stars, Vilkas. What constellation is that one?”

“Cyréne”

“What? I really want to know.”

He looked up to the sky where she was pointing. “That’s the warrior. There’s his sword, there’s his shield, there’s his helmet. Now answer my question.”

“Alright,” she sighed. “We may be able to go back to Jorrvaskr. It just depends on whether Tilma still has her locked up or not.”

“Who?”

“Tilma . . . our maid,” she said, as though he were a complete moron.

Vilkas closed his eyes and willed himself not to choke her.

“I know who Tilma is. Who does she have locked up?”

Cyrene shrugged and looked away from him. “I dunno, some freakishly beautiful, crazy woman.”

Vilkas stopped walking and stared at her. “What?”

“Oh no you don’t,” Cyrene said, pushing at him. “Keep walking. I’m dying for food.”

“I’ll start walking when you explain yourself.”

“Fine, I’m explaining. Walk.”

They started forward and she continued. “You were all dazed on the porch, so I snuck downstairs to get some clothes to change into and some coin to pay for dinner. When I got to your room, there was a woman sitting on your bed.”

Vilkas stopped again. Cyréne grabbed his arm and hauled him forward. “Like I was saying, I said hello and started getting your clothes. She asked if you were with me – which was completely stupid, because obviously, you were not. Anyway, I grabbed your stuff and said goodbye and she started shrieking at me, demanding to know where her husband was. Then she chased me down the hall like a lunatic. So . . . I may have borrowed Tilma’s broom and locked her in the sleeping quarters.”

Vilkas’s mouth dropped open in the darkness. “You _may_ have?”

“I . . . more than may have. I mean, how in Oblivion am I supposed to know where her husband is?” Cyréne continued. “He’s _her_ husband. _She_ should keep up with him.”

“Cyréne,” Vilkas sighed.

“She was really beautiful though, I mean _really_ beautiful. I think she was part Brenton – shiny, dark, curly hair with this really pale skin.”

“Cyrene”

“I think her eyes were purple. Like, how is that even possible? I guess that doesn’t make up for the crazy part, though.”

“Cyréne!”

“What?”

“Please stop talking.”

“Ok,” she said gently. They walked in silence for a few moments. “For how long?”

“Until we get to the Bannered Mare.”

* * *

Cyréne was uncharacteristically quiet all through dinner. Vilkas was too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice. He looked up as she came back from the bar and replaced his empty mead tankard with a full one. Cyréne flopped back down in the chair across from him and put her feet up on the corner of the table, leaning her chair back on two legs. She let out an unladylike yawn that somehow ended in an incredibly feminine little squeak, and stretched before blinking at him a few times.

“So what’s the verdict, Brother? Do we try our luck at Jorrvaskr, or spend the coin to get a room here?”

“You could always stay in my room, Beautiful,” a masculine voice purred from behind her.

Cyréne put on a smile and tilted her head back, regarding the bard upside down.

“Really? That’s so chivalrous of you, Mikael.” She watched the Bard’s eyes widen and light up, before she continued in a puzzled voice, “but then . . . where would you sleep?”

Mikael opened his mouth to reply, but caught sight of Vilkas glowering at him, and retreated to the other side of the room instead.

“We should stay here,” Vilkas said. “Give things a chance to blow over a bit at Jorrvaskr.”

“Fine by me,” Cyréne yawned. “I’m beat.”

 

 

A few minutes later, they were looking at each other warily over the bed.

“Ahem. Hey, Vilkas.”

“What?”

“Do you mind letting me borrow that, to sleep in?”

“Borrow what?”

“Um . . . your tunic.”

“Why, may I ask?”

“Well,” she said sheepishly. “I didn’t really think this through when I was grabbing clothes, and I think this shirt is Ria’s. It’s got some sort of weird leather stitching on the inside that’s been driving me crazy all night. It’s just . . . not going to be very comfortable.”

“And you think I’m going to be comfortable, sleeping in leather trousers?”

“Sorry.” She pouted down at the mattress. “I thought we were just going to dinner when I grabbed those.”

“Here,” he said as white material hit her in the face.

Cyrene turned away from him and mumbled her thanks.

Vilkas dosed the candle and in a moment they crawled into opposite sides of the bed. Vilkas shifted uncomfortably. “Damn these leather pants!” he growled.

“If they bother you that much, just take them off. I already told you I wouldn’t make an attempt on your virtue,” she said tiredly.

“Yes, that’s a great idea,” he snapped sarcastically. “Why don’t we just strip naked and see what happens?”

Cyréne’s cheeks burned in the darkness and she was appalled to find hot tears welling up.

VIlkas found her hand in the darkness. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It’s been a long day. I . . . I didn’t mean that.”

“I know you didn’t,” she said, twining her fingers with his. “That’s part of the problem with being an ass – things like that just slip out sometimes.”

He chuckled in the darkness. “Saber-kitten.”

 

They were silent for a long while, both of them tired, neither of them sleeping, until Cyréne finally broke the silence, “Vilkas?”

“Hmmm?”

“How long have you been married?”

Vilkas sucked in air, then exhaled loudly and pulled his hand away to fold his arms behind his head. “Just now putting that together, Cyréne?”

“No!” she said, indignant. She sighed and lowered her voice. “I knew she was something to you the moment I saw her.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s just so _You,_ you know?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” he lied. “What is so _me_ about her?”

“If I’d ever pictured you married. . .” – _To someone other than me,_ her treacherous mind interjected.– “that woman is exactly what I would have pictured.”

Vilkas looked over at her in the darkness. “Why?”

“Well, she’s beautiful for one thing – exotically beautiful – one of a kind. And she’s got that voice that’s all . . . you know,” she said uncomfortably

“That’s all what?” Vilkas said, smiling to himself.

“You know,” Cyréne huffed.

“I don’t” he insisted, grinning.

She worked up her best seductive imitation, and rolled on her side to face him. “It’s all: ‘Vilkas, come to my bed and I’ll make all of your wildest fantasies come true” she breathed. She gave a little maon in the darkness and continued, “I’ll do things to you that you’ll never forget, Vilkas. I’m the only woman in the world who can satisfy your needs . . .”

Vilkas had been enjoying her discomfort right up until the point she said his name in that completely foreign voice. “That’s . . . quite an impression,” he managed finally.

Cyrene flopped back onto her back.

They lay in silence for a moment before Vilkas spoke somewhat hoarsely, “five years.”

Cyréne propped herself up on her side to face him. “What? No way!”

“And, we’re not married,” he added.

 “Someone ought to tell her that, because she sure as Oblivion thinks you are.”

“Must we talk about this right now, Cyréne?” he said, in irritation.

“Yes Vilkas,” she mimicked, “We must.”

“Fine! If you must know, we were supposed to me married and she changed her mind at the last minute - left me at the alter, actually,” he said.

Cyréne stomach dropped. _Oh, no._

“A few months later she came to me. Begged me to take her back – said she loved me – that’s she’d made a mistake . . . I loved her, so I took her back, and we were married.”

“And,” Cyréne prompted softly.

“And,” he continued, “she disappeared on our wedding night. She left a note saying that she loved me, but that she wasn’t ready to be tied down, and needed time to find herself.”

Cyréne snorted in the darkness.

Vilkas ignored her. “The marriage was never consummated. I searched for her for weeks, until I satisfied myself that she was safe, and even then, I waited. After six more months, I had it annulled.”

“Wow.”

Vilkas looked over at her. “Wow? That’s it? Wow?”

Cyréne sighed and found herself brushing the hair away from his face. “I’m sorry, Vilkas. No one deserves that, especially you. _I would never leave you._ What do you think she wants after all this time?”

He sighed and closed his eyes, “I don’t know.”

 _Gods, I just want to love him until he can’t remember her name,_ she thought desperately, _but that’s not what he needs right now._ Cyréne forced a grin onto her face. “You’re just lucky that you had that annulment before she found herself.”

“What?” he laughed

That one laugh was enough _. See, he laughed, you can do this._ “I mean, she must have been somewhat normal before, right? Or, do you just find that bat-shit-crazy turns you on?”

“I hate you,” he said flatly.

Cyréne tugged him toward her and snuggled into his side with her head on his chest. His arm came around her automatically.

_The wolf raised his head in interest._

“No you don’t, you love me,” she yawned.

“No. I hate you. I’m certain.”

“Give it a rest Vilky-Wilky. Who else would face down a crazy woman on an empty stomach, rescue you _and_ distract you with a naked swim in the moonlight, plus buy you dinner and a room, and then listen to that horrible story and get you to laugh about it? You. Love. Me.” She punctuated the last three words by wrapping an arm around his torso and tightening her embrace slightly with each word.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “And don’t call me that.”

“Maybe a lot,” she murmured, falling into sleep.

Vilkas lay awake for a long time after Cyréne drifted to sleep. He waited for the restlessness to come over him – to feel the wolf straining to break free. All was quiet, and it occurred to him that it had been quiet for a while _. When was the last time he’d spent the night with a woman like this? It should feel awkward and strange, full of sexual tension, but it didn’t. It just felt . . . right._ Vilkas rested his cheek on her forehead and closed his eyes. _Maybe a lot,_ he thought.

_The wolf was lying still with his head on his paws. He huffed lightly and his tail swished once._


	3. Hurt

_Try to kill it all away, but I remember everything . . . . . . What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know goes away, in the end. And you could have it all -my empire of dirt. I will let you down. I will make you hurt. – Trent Reznor, NIN_

The familiar doors loomed before her, dark and ominous. The cold snow drifted against the stone and flakes swirled gently behind her in the chill wind. The amulet around her neck stirred against her skin. Ghosts spoke around her, shadows of the past calling her toward the future. She was afraid. A hand on her arm, strong and warm, gentle fingers lifting her chin to meet his eyes, “I am your sword and your shield. I will protect you, with my life.”

She closed her eyes and inhaled softly, breathing in his strength, his warmth, his safety. She willed herself to say the words that she knew she should say, that even now she begged herself to say, “Wait here”. But the words would not come. She was crippled by her fear, and in her weakness, she could only nod. She saw her hand touch the door, and then it was gone. The image rippled away from her like a stone sinking in dark water.

His red hair was plastered to his face with sweat, blood gushed from his side, his pale skin was paler than she’d ever seen it before as he struggled to breathe. She handed him potions, afraid to draw attention with her magic. She kneeled before him. “Stay down, let me draw his fire – I’ll save us, I promise you.” Even to her own ears her voice was panicked, desperate.

“I’ve failed you . . .” his voice broke.

“Never.”

She turned to go, but his hand came up behind her neck and pulled her mouth to his. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She poured herself into his kiss – a silent promise – _Live and I’ll give you everything, all of myself. Live and I’ll give you forever. All you have to do is live._

A crackle of lightning sounded and she pulled herself away. “I’ll come back for you. Stay down.”

She fought with everything she had. She was losing. She was losing and they would die here. Her heart dropped as her last Atronach fell, and she pulled a scroll from her bag. This was her last chance – she felt the stinging heat of fire as it rolled around her and she ripped swords from each hip slashing at the abomination that floated before her, an emotionless mockery of her pain and fear. It faltered under her rain of blows, unable to escape the cloak of fire rolling around her. _If she could just stay close to it_.

A jolt of shock from the creature’s staff caught her unprepared. She cried out as pain tore through her, leaving her crumpled on the floor, her limbs twitching. She watched her death approach. Regret and bitter tears spilling out of her.

And then he was there, his sword and shield raised in her defense. She screamed as his shield was torn from his grasp and he fell to one knee. Their eyes locked and he knew it was the end. He smiled at her and said her name and the words he’d been longing to say for so much longer than she knew, “I love you”. Then his body was flying away from her, contorting brokenly in a sickening shock of blue.

“Caldor!” Cyréne sat bolt upright, arms extended in the darkness, as his name ripped from her with a sob. Tears streamed down her face as she tried to catch her breath.

Vilkas had been watching her in concern for several minutes as - lost in her dreams - she grew more distressed. He sat up when she did, and gave her a moment to come out of it, before pulling her into his arms. Her body shook violently against him with silent sobs, and she clung to him as though she were drowning, her tears wetting his chest for a few moments before she wrapped her arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder. Her body pressed against his and he clenched his teeth against his growing arousal, cursing himself for his body’s reaction.

She stiffened slightly and he loosened his grip so that she could turn in his arms.

Thinking only that the comfort she desperately needed was leaving her, Cyrene’s mind screamed out in the darkness. _No! Please, hold me! Don’t let me go, please!_

 Vilkas was moving to get closer to her when she straddled him. His length hardened instantly under her and she murmured approvingly as she scorched his chest with hot kisses. He blinked in the darkness and trailed his hands down her back, groaning and rolling his head back as her mouth found his throat and assaulted it with a barrage of gentle sucking and soft nips.  She shifted against him in the darkness and the delicious friction of her hips in his lap caused him to hiss in a breath.

_The wolf balked. Stop. Something is wrong._

“Cyréne,” he growled softly.

When she didn’t answer, he moved to see her face only to have her evade him. He leaned back, holding her away from him with one arm and lit the candle on the nightstand. Slim tan thighs peeked from the bottom of his tunic and wrapped around either side of his hips. His tunic hung loosely on her, giving no hint of her body save for one exposed shoulder. Her still damp hair hung in a golden curtain around her face.

“Look at me,” he ordered gently.

Her eyes were haunted and rimmed with red, her lashes spikey with tears that still fell in a slow slide down her cheeks. His heart constricted in anger. _She would let me take her like this, while she cries!_

Vilkas dowsed the candle again and lifted her off of him in the darkness. He settled her beside him on the bed before opening his arms to her. She wiped her eyes and then snuggled into his side.

“Please,” she whispered, “I . . .”

Vilkas tightened his embrace and pulled her closer and stared up into the darkness. “I’m here.”

When her shaking subsided, he glanced down at her. “Who is Caldor?”

Her voice was faraway and sad when she spoke and Vilkas felt like he was listening to a stranger. “A good man, who died . . . because of me.”

“How?”

She took a deep breath and shook her head. “I . . . can’t.”

“You can,” he said immediately.

 She choked back a sob. “We. . .I, was on a mission for the College of Winterhold. I was not prepared . . . to deal with what we were up against. They shouldn’t have sent me,” she said bitterly. “It was like sending a lamb to be slaughtered.”

Vilkas’s grip around her tightened, even as his uneasiness grew. _Why would a bunch of mages send Cyréne to do anything?_

“Start from the beginning, so I can understand,” he said.

Cyréne laughed sadly. “Vilkas, you have no idea what you ask of me.”

He didn’t answer.

“You may have heard that the College was working on an excavation of Saarthal a few years ago. Do you remember hearing about that?”

“Yes.”

“I’d just joined the College and—“

Vilkas pulled away from her and looked down at her in the darkness. “You? A mage?”

“Yes . . .”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.”I don’t believe—“

His words were cut off by the sound of magic flaring and his eyes widened as a ball of light floated above their heads, dancing softly a few feet in the air. He looked back down at Cyréne in disbelief.

She smiled.

“You hid this from me!” he said accusingly. “Why?”

“I can’t have secrets?”

“Continue with your story,” he said, casting a wary eye at the light hovering above them.

“I’d just joined the College, and I was helping catalog items in the ruins. My very first day at the site, I was sent to find magical artifacts to study and I managed to get myself trapped in a chamber in  some of the newest parts of the excavation—“

“Well, that part is believable,” Vilkas muttered.

He listened in fascination as Cyrene explained about the amulet she found, the Eye of Magnus, and the Night of Tears, stopping her to ask questions every few sentences. When she told him about Quaranir and the Psijic Order and the time spell, his arms tightened around her.

“What did he say?”

“He told me that the longer the Eye remained in the College, the more dangerous the situation would become, and that I should seek out the [Augur of Dunlain](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Augur_of_Dunlain).”

“And what is that?”

Vilkas struggled to wrap his mind around everything Cyréne was explaining to him. She answered all of his questions in a calm steady voice, that he barely recognized, but was growing accustomed and attracted to. His experience with magic was limited and unpleasant, but she was able to draw parallels from things he was familiar with, and he found himself drawn in to her tale and wishing he’d seen the things she’d seen.

 

Cyréne’s voice was dark when she told him about the death of the Arch-mage.

“And they let the burden fall to you, a mere child?” he growled angrily. “Why?”

“I’ve often wondered,” she said softly. “Perhaps they saw something I did not, or maybe they sent me to my death while they searched for a more suitable candidate – I know not. I wasn’t a child, though, Vilkas – just a fool.”

“A child!” he said harshly. “A fledgling, compared to them . . .”

Cyréne hid her face in his shoulder for a moment and let his anger die down. “This, next part is difficult for me, Vilkas. I’ve told only one other person about this. Even at the College, no one knows . . .” She took a deep breath to steady herself.

Cyréne struggled to keep her composure as she told him about the hell that had been Labyrinthian. Terror flooded her eyes as she recounted the hours of battle, how she was unprepared for what everything, how poorly her skills served her, how she’d finally given up on anything but healing spells and forged ahead with sword and shield. She broke down when she told him what she found in the final chamber – how the arch-mage left his friends enthralled to the Dragon Priest and sealed away.

“By the gods,” Vilkas whispered hoarsely. “Cyréne, you don’t have to tell me anymore, love.”

“No, I need to tell you, please . . . I need to” She pleaded.

He nodded and kissed her forehead. “I want to know.”

She told him about the battle, and Caldor, her voice dripping with sorrow and self-loathing. Her voice sounded hollow and dead suddenly, “I dragged Caldor’s body out of there and cried like a child. I thought it was over. I was weak, and so very wrong.”

_The wolf growled menacingly._

Vilkas held her away from him and looked into her face, realization overtaking him. “Someone was waiting, to take the staff from you?”

She nodded and laughed bitterly, “Of course.”

“Who?”

“I won’t speak his name” she spat hatefully. “He was a mage  – sent by Ancono to kill me. That fucking Thalmor bastard!” her voice broke. “He raised Caldor from my arms, Vilkas – from my very arms. I was crying over Caldor’s body, kissing his face . . . he could have just killed me himself and I never would have seen it coming, but instead—“ she sobbed and stopped speaking.

Vilkas’s heart stopped beating for a moment. “He used necromancy?!”

Cyréne’s emotions wrapped around him like the sea – terrible waves of hatred and sorrow, buffeting him from all sides.

“Yes.” Her voice was barely a whisper now. “He raised Caldor against me, and asked me if I was willing to see him die twice, and . . . and, then he laughed.” The magelight faded above their heads.

“This mage,” Vilkas said after a moment, “is he dead?”

“You would slay him for me, Brother?” Cyrene smiled.

Vilkas nodded, “Am I to have the privilege?”

“I’m afraid not, “Cyrene said softly. “It is one I would guard jealously, had I not already sent him screaming to his death.”

“Tell me what happened after that.”

After Cyréne finished her story, they lie together in silence – Cyrene spent from recounting her tale and Vilkas trying to absorb it. After a while Vilkas spoke into the darkness.

“You’re the Arch-mage of the College of Winterhold,” he said slowly.

“I am, yes.”

“I’m lying in bed with one of the most powerful mage’s in Skyrim.”

“Politically, _the_ most powerful,” she said, “and, magically, more powerful than most.” _Have I lost you?_

“I see.”

“Thinking about all the dirty sex spells I might know, Vilkey-Wilky?” she said slyly.

Vilkas barked out a laugh. “That actually had not crossed my mind, but now that you mention it…” He growled playfully and rolled her onto her back pressing a searing kiss onto her collarbone.

Cyréne gasped in shocked pleasure and giggled. “Forget something?”

“Don’t call me that” he chuckled.

He looked down at her. “I am proud of you, Cyréne.”

Her voice caught, “That’s . . . not what I expected you to say.”

“What did you expect?”

“I expected you to be angry with me.”

“For?”

“For being a mage, and for . . . earlier.”

He brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “His death was not your fault, Cyréne. None of your Shield-siblings would have left your side, why do you think he would have?”

“I could have forced him to,” she said quietly.

“Unlikely,” Vilkas said. “How?”

Cyréne swallowed. “He was my house-carl. I could have ordered him to wait for me outside. I led him to his death.”

“No man with honor, would have left you to that alone, even if ordered . . . . Wait, you’re a THANE?” Vilkas felt as though she’d just told him she could fly.

“Um . . . yes?”

“Of which hold?”

“Well . . .”

“More than one?!”

“Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

He stared down at her in the darkness.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said ominously, and then giggled as he flinched.

“Amusing,” he said dryly. “What am I thinking?”

“My little saber-kitten, all grown up . . .”

Vilkas settled behind her and pulled her against him. “Tomorrow, Saber-kitten, you have a lot of explaining to do.”

“Vilkas”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you, for listening  . . . and for being proud of me. No one ever said they were. They were just amazed I was still alive.”

Vilkas dropped a kiss on the back of her head. “You’re welcome. Now, go to sleep.”


	4. Fire and Ice

Yvette brushed her hair thoughtfully. Truly, when she’d decided to come here, it had only been to make sure her affairs were in order. She was so close to being married to one of the richest men in Cyrodiil that she could taste it. There was no way she was going to let some backwoods Nordic mistake from her past ruin it for her. Knowing Vilkas – that’s exactly what he would do if he got the chance. _Anything to avenge that precious pride of his._

She’d been seething about this last loose end all the way from the Imperial City, only her soon-to-be-husband’s influence allowing her passage across the border to take care of a “family matter” as she had termed it. She’d barely acknowledged anyone on the entire long trip and was therefore thoroughly shocked when she bothered to glance around at the warriors of Jorrvaskr. She’d been angling for rich old men so long that she’d forgotten what a warrior looked like.

Farkas, standing before her, had been an eye-opening reminder about the men of her homeland. Piercing blue eyes and dark hair, along with a warrior’s body, and the smell of man had sent a rush of heat through her body. As for Vilkas, she’d been dying to get her hands on him, since she saw his brother – she hoped he hadn’t obtained any ugly scars. She shrugged lightly, oh well – as long as one part of him still worked, she didn’t care – it’s not like she was going to be keeping him around.

And then there was that little blonde. Yvette smiled to herself. Her tastes had developed quite a bit over the last few years and she admitted to herself with a slow smile that she’d find that little blonde’s head between her thighs pleasing as well. The blonde would be having none of it though, she assumed, which left Vilkas and a competition. Yvette tapped a finger to her lips thoughtfully. If Vilkas was spending time with the blonde, they hadn’t yet slept together – if they had, Yvette was sure she’d have gotten more of a reaction from last night’s little display of angry wife. And if they weren’t sleeping together – _well then there’s really no competition at all_ , she thought.

Knowing Vilkas, he’d been sulking around like the tortured soul he was, and the little idiot had been playing the fool trying to draw him into some happiness. _Stupid! To think that a man can be handled like that – especially Vilkas. Vilkas, who loathes happiness more than death itself._ Yvette stretched – it had to be close to dawn by now – this wouldn’t be difficult at all. Vilkas was a man, and men had weaknesses – namely her, but in this case pride also, and it would be his downfall. With a seductive chuckle she unlaced her corset and spread it wide, baring her chest. She hiked her skirts above her waist and took a few moments to pose herself erotically on Vilkas’s bed, before slipping her hand between her legs. _Mm’mm . . . Vilkas, come to me._

* * *

 

Vilkas woke to the feel of Cyréne in his arms and a raging erection straining against his pants. He tortured himself for a few moments with thoughts of different ways to wake her that would end with him inside of her. He wondered what she would want from him. He’d observed her over the past months, enough to know that she didn’t give her affections lightly. He’d never seen her be cruel in a rejection, although he had once seen her deck a mercenary that had grabbed her ass.

The one night it seemed she might take a man to her bed, Vilkas had intervened by dragging her back to Jorrvaskr with a lecture on being fit for duty the next morning – he’d then spent the night combing through piles of paper to find a suitable mission. That had been over a month ago and he’d not taken a woman since.

 _She’ll want more from you than sex, much more._ The prospect had him unsettled. Oddly, Yvette showing up and the events of the last night had set his mind at peace. Cyréne was not Yvette, she wouldn’t cause him pain, and she was worthy of his love. _Do I love her? Yes. Am I in love with her?_ He glanced down at her, breathing in her scent. _Before I tell her anything, I have to deal with Yvette._

He shifted in the bed, and got up. She whimpered in protest at the loss of warmth. He busied himself around the room for a few minutes, before tucking the blankets around her and dropping a kiss on her forehead. The scent of her lured him back toward the bed and he forced himself toward the door before he could crawl between the sheets again and make love to her until she screamed his name. The thought jarred him, and he stifled a groan as he left the room.

He headed up to Jorrvaskr in the weak gray light. No one stirred inside as he padded softly through the living quarters. If Yvette had been there, there was no sign of her now. He opened the doors to his quarters and frowned. The woman on his bed was half-naked and pleasuring herself. His eyes raked across her body of their own accord and his arousal made itself known again. Her sensuous curves were on full display. Pale breasts topped with light pink nipples bounced gently with the rocking of her rounded hips. She rolled one pert nipple between her fingertips. Her other hand was between her thighs, two fingers working rhythmically in her dark curls. She arched her back and moaned his name.

He turned away, clenching his jaw, only to have her moan of pleasure reach his ears. Yvette whispered under her breath and waved her fingers sending a soft pink tendril of shimmering energy toward his back. 

* * *

Cyréne yawned and took in her surroundings. Vilkas couldn’t have been gone too long. An extra blanket had been tucked around her and a sweet-roll, so warm that the icing was still melting, sat on a plate beside the bed. She smiled to herself and reached for the note beside it. A little thrill ran through her at seeing her name written in his strong script.

_Cyréne,_

_I’m sorry I can’t join you for breakfast. There are pressing matters that require my attention._

_\--Vilkas_

_How formal_ , she mused. She set the note back down on the table. Her smile broadened and she twirled a golden lock around her fingers as she thought about the man she’d grown so attached to over the past months. _Vilkas, Vilkas – a dark haired contradiction, fire incased in ice._ Handled carefully he could be kept at a warm simmer of mild annoyance that seemed to suit him.

He’d sorely underestimated her during her trial. To her great amusement, he’d muttered something about her being more suited for bedding than battle as he led her out to the training yard to test her arm. After proving her skills beyond even his doubt, she’d been sorely tempted to make a smart remark about teaching him a few lessons in that other area, but had held her peace – barely.

 As soon as she’d been accepted, she asked him to train her in with two-handed weapons. She’d no doubt that he’d enjoying beating her day after day, and his pride had healed quickly. Since then they’d developed a seemingly easy camaraderie. A lot of work went into keeping Vilkas in a tolerable mood, but lately, it seemed to be paying off. He’d seemed more at ease, and she found his every exaggerated sigh and amused smirk fed her addiction to his happiness.

She looked over at the note again and wondered about the man who left it. Things had taken a dangerously exciting turn over the last few hours. Despite her continued efforts to play the amusing puppy for his entertainment, she’d known he was starting to see through her ruse. _And now the saber-kitten is definitely out of the bag._

“Oh well,” she muttered, “he’s just fire and ice – keep him at a simmer.”

She wanted nothing more than to snuggle down in the covers, but the sudden memory of herself straddling him, while he moaned with his head back, lit her up like a flame Atronach. She wanted him so much it hurt – needed him to say her name in that sexy voice and watch her that smoldering stare as he filled every inch of her. Groaning, she shook herself out of her fantasy. She scarfed down the sweet-roll, shoved the note in her pocket and made ready to leave.

 

When she entered Jorrvaskr a few minutes later, most of the Companions were milling about getting breakfast. To her surprise Njada approached her.

“Shield-Sister”

“Good morning, Njada. Keeping well?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Um, may I be of service?”

Njada looked at her for a moment, eyes unreadable, and then said, “Friends like you are hard to find, and very valuable to me.”

Cyréne’s eyes widened. “Th-thank you, Njada. I feel the same.”

Njada handed her a folded piece of paper. “If you’re headed downstairs, please give this to Vilkas for me.”

Cyréne smiled. “Of course. Wanna train later? I can always use some help with self-defense.”

Njada gave her a strange look. “Perhaps.”

Cyréne practically skipped down the hall. She’d secured some time off from Kodlak weeks ago, and she was beginning to think now was the perfect time to use it. She had her duties to see to at the college, of course, but perhaps Vilkas would travel there with her. She dropped her things on her bed and headed toward Vilkas’s room with Njada’s letter. She opened the door without thinking to knock . . .and felt the hard slap of her own words as fire seared down one side of her heart and ice shattered through the other.

Vilkas was facing away from her, his head buried against the neck of the woman he was taking against the wall. He growled against her as she arched into him. Before she could flee, the woman caught her gaze and held it.

“You’ve missed me haven’t you Vilkas?” she purred.

The world seemed to slow.

“Yes.”

“Mmmm, you’re so good.” The woman smiled, still looking at Cyréne, “Say my name, Vilkas.”

 _No! Gods, please don’t,_ Cyréne silently begged

“Yvette”

The letter floated to the floor. Yvette smiled wickedly and dug her nails into Vilkas’s shoulders.

Cyréne rounded the corner to the whelp room and leaned against the wall gulping air. She dressed in leather armor and packed lightly, intent on losing herself in a ride, if she could make it to the stables without being caught. She knew she had to talk to Kodlak before she left, but nothing in the world could force her back down that hallway at the moment. She schooled her features as best she could, cast a calming spell over herself and headed upstairs. She caught Njada’s eye as she left Jorrvaskr.

“Thank you,” she mouthed.

Njada closed her eyes briefly, nodded, and turned away.


	5. Enter the Hero

The Dragonborn was tired and hungry and horny and irritable, so when a golden-haired beauty smelling of sweet roll nearly bowled him over on the steps of the Wind District, he took offense.

“Hey! Watch it!” he growled

“Sorry,” she muttered.

Not content, he grabbed her arms and spun her around. “That’s not a very good apology.”

She didn’t look at him. “I. . . I’m sorry, truly,” she stammered. “I was upset and I wasn’t watching where I was going. Please – forgive my carelessness.”

Feeling as though he’d just booted a small puppy across the plaza, he relaxed his grip on her and gave her a small shake, forcing her eyes up to his. She was trying, valiantly, to hold back tears. _Of fucking course she is_ , he thought.

“Hey, you’re—“

“The Dragonborn, I know, I know,” he cut her off.

Her slim brows rose. “You’re the Dragonborn?”

“What were you going to say?”

“That you’re bleeding.”

“Probably because you just slammed into a recent battle wound,” he said, with more irritation than he felt.

An attractively feminine gasp of horror escaped her and she reached toward the slash in his armor.

“My Thane,” came an irritated voice from a few steps back.

“Not now, Lydia,” he said.

Kalv allowed himself to be guided to a bench underneath the Gildergreen. His eyes lazed over the blonde as she pulled his heavy pack away from him and set it on the ground.

“My Thane!”

Kalv closed his eyes, the picture of long-suffering martyrdom. Before he could berate Lydia, Sweetroll spoke. “Your house-carl seems exhausted, Dragonborn, and she certainly won’t be of use standing around here.”

Kalv’s eyes flew to a red-faced Lydia.

“Perhaps you can release her for the moment to take care of whatever pressing matters concern her while I see to your immediate needs.”

Lydia looked as though her eyes were going to bug out of her head.

“That’s an excellent idea,” Kalv said with a smile. “Lydia, it’s time for us to part ways. Go sell this stuff and then take the day off.” He waved away her protests and turned his attention back to Sweetroll.

“So Sweetroll, have a name?”

She sniggered and kept her eyes trained on the wound she was uncovering. “Steal that one from, Mikael?”

He laughed in a rich baritone. “You wound me – Twice now – and I’m Kalv.”

Her storm cloud-blue eyes flicked to his. “Do you do that often? Laugh, I mean? Really laugh?”

One of his blonde brows quirked at the oddly weighted question. “Yes, as often as I can,” he answered seriously.

His answer seemed to please her for some reason. “Good.”

Finally revealing the wound, she frowned slightly. “We should go somewhere else so I can look at this. I may need some supplies.”

“Gladly,” he said. “My house is this way.”

 

 

The Dragonborn sat, stripped to the waist, on a chair in his bedroom. Cyrene knelt before him wringing out a clean cloth in hot water. She’d already cleaned his wound when she noticed the heated patch of red at the end.

“Is this a recent wound?”

He’d been so busy picturing himself licking icing off her pouty coral mouth that he almost missed her question. “Huh? Oh, yes, Danica healed it for me a few weeks ago, but it reopened yesterday when I took a hit.” He winced as she pressed lightly in the red patch.

Cyréne’s jaw tightened slightly and she looked up at him worriedly. “It has to be opened further. She missed something and you have an infection.”

“Are you sure?” he started, “Danica—“

“Spends more time worrying about that damn tree and listening to marriage problems than paying attention to what she’s doing, apparently.”

Before he could say anything else, she whipped out a clean dagger and made a deep cut.

“Gods Damn It!” he roared.

“Be still, please!” she hissed.

 

He looked down to see more puss than blood seeping out of the wound. Cyréne made a gagging sound and shook her head. She rinsed the wound repeatedly and packed it with clean linen. Kalv was shaking and had broken into a cold sweat.

“Just a little longer,” she coaxed. After a few moments of poking and prodding him, she realized she was going to have to cause him further pain and called his name sensuously. “Kalv”

“What?” he panted.

“Do you want to see me naked?”

He gazed down at her in shock and nodded dumbly.

“What do you want to see first?” she breathed.

His mouth went dry, “Well, I . . . your . . .”

“My what?” she pouted.

“Your . . . uh, all of you. Especially your, OBLIVION TAKE IT!”

A searing pain pierced his lust-addled brain as she effectively cauterized the wound. The crackle of fire left her fingertips and was replaced by a welcome touch of frosty coolness.

“God’s above woman!”

She gave him an apologetic smile. “I know, and I’m sorry, but now the good part.”

Charmed, he watched her as she washed her hands and then splayed them out over his wound. Healing energy washed over him and he groaned happily.

Cyréne ran her hands over the hard planes of the Dragonborn’s chest, letting them wander a little farther than was strictly necessary, happy for anything that distracted her from the pain that was clawing at her insides. She watched him as his clear green eyes closed in bliss. His shoulder-length blonde hair was pulled into a few braids in the front and hung loose in the back. Blonde stubble graced a strong jaw and sensuous mouth. A few minutes later, all traces of the wound were gone and he was energized.

“That should do it,” she said with a sigh.

“You’re good at this. I’m surprised you’re not with one of the temples.”

‘I’m not really the priestess type,” she muttered

He shot her a wicked grin. “No, I suppose most temples would frown on you encouraging your patients to think of your naked body.”

To his surprise she punched him lightly.

“As if you needed my encouragement.”

She was on her way out of the door, but he caught her easily, “Oh, no you don’t,” he growled.

“Oh no I don’t, what?” she demanded.

Kalv trapped her against he wall and leaned down into her personal space. “Oh no you don’t, go treating me like I’m some harmless boy to be toyed with,” he said lowly.

She pushed at him, alarmed, “What?”

“That may work with those shield-brothers of yours up the hill,” he said, running a hand up her side, “but I assure you, I’m no plaything.”

“Stop! Please, stop!”

She sounded panicked. Kalv stopped and regarded her, curious. Her stormy blue eyes were widened in alarm. Hints of passionate fire licked behind them, but Sweetroll was clearly shocked at his actions. He frowned.

Cyréne felt her cheeks flush. Her heart twisted in panic. The Dragonborn was frowning down at her fiercely. Heat coursed through her, her emotions were already at a fever pitch and his close proximity was sending jolts of tingling fire to nether regions. But Vilkas . . . she felt betrayed, she was scared, confused. Her thoughts swam. _I’m acting like a god’s damned whore!_

Kalv watched in slight amusement as Sweetroll grasped at her emotions.

 _Pick lust_ , he willed silently.

Her eyes narrowed.

_Nope._

“I am not a god’s damned whore!” she spat. “I do not _toy_ , with my shield-siblings and I sure as Oblivion am not trying to make you my plaything!” She shook him off of her. “Why? WHY are you doing this to me?”

Kalv was at a loss, “I . . .”

“You what?” she raved. “This is the second most fucked up situation I’ve found myself in today – all because I tried to help someone.”

“Language, Sweetroll, please!” he teased.

She shoved him roughly and stormed toward the door. “I’ll use whatever FUCKING _language_ I want to. Go save the god’s damned world or something!” she yelled.

“But Sweetroll . . .” he began

“AND DON’T CALL ME SWEETROLL!” she yelled.

The door slammed behind her hard enough for the glass to rattle in the window panes.

The Dragonborn grinned. _Sweetroll_


	6. Sweet Mead and Bitter Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the operation of life." - George Bernard Shaw

Cyréne stood on the Dragonborn’s doorstep fuming. Someone clearing their throat brought her out of her furious haze. The Dragonborn’s house-carl stood before her, arms crossed, with a sour look on her face.

“You!” Cyréne pointed a finger at the dark-haired Nord. “Your name is Lydia, right?”

Lydia looked at her with suspicion, “Yes, why?”

“I’m buying you a drink, “Cyréne growled.

Lydia opened her mouth to protest, but shrugged and followed the blonde Imperial up the hill to the Bannered mare instead – it _was_ her day off.

Six rounds later, Lydia had her head on the table. “And he makes me carry all this shit around! Huge amounts of shit.”

“Ass!” Cyréne hissed.

Lydia raised her head. “Yes, just like I was his ass – to carry all of his shit.”

Cyréne’s mug froze halfway to her lips. She shot Lydia a sideways glance, ‘Whaa?’

Lydia blinked. “A pack mule to carry all of his . . .”

Cyréne was shaking in silent laughter.

“Whas’so funny?”

“You said ass,” Cyréne gasped, “like shit, and then—“

“Yeah,” Lydia grumbled. “I gotta carry all ‘is shit like I’ma ass.”

Still laughing, Cyréne waved her hands in front of her face, sloshing her mead. Tears rolled down her face and Lydia grinned at her and shook her head in confusion. _Crazy Imperial._

“So tell me,” Cyréne said after she regained her composure, “the house-carl and the thane – classic love story is it not?”

Lydia nodded her head. “Oh yeah. House-carls dream of getting a thane that looks like him.”

Cyréne grinned. “So . . .”

“So . . . what?” Lydia asked.

“SO . . .” Cyréne made a rolling motion with her hand. “Is there hot forbidden sex underneath all this talk of torture?”

“NO!” Lydia stated emphatically.

Cyréne laughed, “But you just said—“

Lydia grimaced and gave an involuntary shudder.

“Alright, alright - I just want to know how you avoid wanting to bed him if you find him that attractive,” Cyréne said, tipping her tankard to her lips.

“Uhh . . . I spend time with him,” Lydia deadpanned.

Cyréne snorted and mead spewed back into her tankard and ran down her mouth.

“Lydia, my love, where have you been all my life?”

“Hauling around shit for the Savior of the World.”

 

Hours later, the Dragonborn entered the Bannered Mare, intent on dinner and getting some information on one particularly sweet Sweetroll. Hulda waved and motioned him over to the bar to take his order.

“Here you are,” she said a few minutes later. “I hope you stick around, I may need some help later with your house-carl and her new best friend. They’ve been drinking all day”

Kalv followed Hulda’s gaze to a corner table where Lydia _dear, sweet, wonderful Lydia_ was laughing and slapping the table as Sweetroll, obviously in the middle of a story, made exaggerated gestures with her hands. Kalv retreated to another table with his food and watched them while he ate. A while later, Sweetroll launched into another story and soon Lydia was patting her arm with a forlorn look on her face. Kalv caught something about Dibella and whores and simmering. _Interesting_ He signaled to Hulda for another round and settled into his chair.

“And then he said her name? Like, right there with her looking at you?” Lydia was appalled.

“Yes,” Cyréne choked miserably.

“That . . . that _little BITCH”_ Lydia spat.

“YES! He IS a little bitch!” Cyréne said, anger coloring her features.

“Well, I was talking about her, but—“ Lydia cut herself off, “so is he. You should kick his ass!”

“I _should_ kick his ass!” Cyréne said dangerously. She wobbled to her feet and teetered there for a moment.

* * *

Vilkas spent his day neck-deep in self-disgust. After everything she’d put him through, everything he’d put himself through over her, he’d let her get to him, and he’d let her fuck him – again. Yvette hadn’t wanted anything more than to be free of him to marry some other unlucky bastard – and a good bedding. He still wasn’t sure how he’d let it happen. He could blame it on not taking a woman in over a month, or Yvette’s preplanned assault, but it didn’t matter. No excuse was good enough. After holding a warm sleeping Cyréne in his arms not moments before _Cyréne, gods, what have I done?_ He’d allowed her sweet scent to be replaced by Yvette of all people.  He loathed himself. He handed Yvette a large sack of gold as she signed the papers that further severed any union they’d once had.

“Bye, Love,” Yvette chirped happily.

“Goodbye,” Vilkas said flatly, as he walked her through Jorrvaskr.

“And don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll get over it.”

Vilkas eyed her suspiciously, “Who?’

Yvette blushed prettily and fluttered her lashes over her beautiful eyes, “Oh you didn’t notice?” she purred.

Vilkas’s jaw clenched, he found her about as appealing as a hagraven.

“That pretty little blonde of yours,” Yvette continued. “Not quite your type really, is she Vilkas? She seems much too . . . happy. At least she did before-”

“Before what?” he growled

“Before she walked in on us” Yvette purred, please with herself. Her ruby lips curled upward as the color drained from Vilkas’s face. _Oh this is just **too** good!_ “Such a pity too, right when you were telling me how much you missed me and calling my name.”

 _No! Please, no!_ Vilkas’s face contorted in misery

“Funny,” Yvette chirped as she slipped out the door, “that’s the same look that was on her face.”

Vilkas shoved a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. _This isn’t happening._

Njada shouldered past him roughly and followed Yvette out the door. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it Shield-Brother,” she said harshly. “She managed to snag the Dragonborn on her way out of town. Unlike you, she traded up.”

_Cyréne saw me with Yvette, and she’s gone, with the Dragonborn._

Vilkas struggled to make sense of his swimming thoughts. He barely registered his own forward motion when his brother put a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the Bannered Mare.

* * *

The Mare had steadily filled with customers and the two intoxicated women were not drawing too much attention – that is until Lydia sucker-punched one of the Companions. The Dragonborn choked on his mead and nearly tumbled from his chair. _Shit!_

“Whore! Little Bitch!” Lydia yelled.

The irate Companion was just getting to his feet when Kalv reached them.

“What is the meaning of this?” Vilkas snarled

Kalv wedged himself between them. “Apologies, it seems my house-carl has had too much to drink. If you’ll just allow me to remove her-”

He turned to face Lydia only to have a surprise left hook him right in the mouth and send him sprawling to the floor. He looked up, furious. Sweetroll stood over him.

“What _Lydia_ has had too much of,” she yelled, “is carrying all of your SHIT around!”

Vilkas and Kalv gaped at her.

“Cyréne! Sweetroll!” they said.

“No!” Lydia slurred, “She’s mine!”

Cyréne shot them both a ‘that’s-right-assholes’ look and echoed, “Hers.”

To emphasize her point Lydia hitched the blonde up and kissed her, leaning her low over the nearest table. Low whistles and cheers sounded from around the bar and the women righted themselves and grinned at each other.

Kalv took the hand Farkas offered him and, grinning, hauled himself from the floor. “Sorry about that,” he said to Vilkas.

“Seeing as how one of ours just did you the same favor, I’d say we’re even,” Vilkas said.

Kalv wiped the blood from his lip and pointed at Lydia, “Home, now!”

Vilkas moved to collect Cyréne, but stopped when she turned away from him.

The Dragonborn narrowly missed another punch as he held the door for the two intoxicated women. He grinned. “Now, now . . . manners.”

“Ass!” hissed Cyréne

“Whatever you say, Sweetroll.”

“MINE!”

“For gods’ sake Lydia.”


	7. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Looking back, I have this to regret, that too often when I loved, I did not say so." - David Grayson

Kalv was smiling when he opened his eyes. His body ached in ways he didn’t know possible – all of them good. The woman beside him let out a breathy little sleep-filled sigh and his cock twitched. He’d never been more sated in his life.

_Talos bless her luscious body and those magic fingers of hers._

At one point she’d given his balls a little zap of sparks that resulted in such a strong orgasm he’d YOL TOOR SHUL’d and nearly burnt the place down around them. He gathered her to him and began kissing her neck, smiling as she made a sweet noise and hunched her shoulders away from him. He nuzzled her cheek gently and rolled her onto her back. Positioning himself over her, he rolled one dusky nipple between his fingertips and latched his mouth over the other. She moaned and arched towards him. Her eyes opened slightly.

“Good morning, Cyréne,” he murmured.

She smiled, almost shyly, “Good morning.”

A moment later she gasped from the delicious suction of his mouth. He smiled and trailed kisses further south. Cyréne went absolutely wild when his mouth found its destination.

“Gods, you taste sweet,” he praised.

She thought she had reached her peak, then he gave her most sensitive spot a gentle suck and whispered against her almost silently “fus”. Cyréne came absolutely unhinged.

Later she sighed his name in new throws of passion, and he groaned in response.

“Gods woman, just my name on your lips nearly drives me to my release.”

“Find it then,” she breathed shakily.

“Ladies first, Love” he grinned.

Many pleasurable hours later, Kalv traced invisible lines across her ribcage as she slept wrapped in his arms. _What could she desire?_ _Jewels, riches, fine houses?_ All he would give to her gladly. He smiled to himself picturing her draped across his bed in fine silk. _Would she prefer adventures, or rare treasures and fine weapons?_ _Perhaps she had enemies in need of slaying . . ._ the thought gave him pause and his arms tightened around her protectively. _And suddenly, I find myself wrapped around your magical little finger, Sweetroll._

 

* * *

 

Vilkas wandered aimlessly around Jorrvaskr well into the afternoon. He destroyed several training dummies and still growled in frustration. Cyréne was still in town, as far as he knew, but she’d all but refused to look at him last night, and he hadn’t pressed her.

“It’s not like we’ve even been together,’ he growled to himself. “It’s ridiculous.”

“What is?”

Vilkas rolled his eyes at the sound of his brother’s voice. “I don’t want to talk about it, Farkas”

“If ‘it’ is supposed to be Cyréne, I agree with you,“ Farkas said.

Vilkas looked at him, unsure, “You do?”

“Yes. If Cyréne is nothing more than a shield-sister to you, then you shouldn’t be so upset.”

“Aye” Vilkas nodded.

“But you are upset.”

“Aye” he said again.

“Brother, you cannot have missed that Cyréne has feelings for you.”

Vilkas smiled in spite of himself, but then his face grew dark. “But I did miss it, Farkas, and now it’s too late.”

“It’s not too late.”

“She saw me with Yvette”

“She’ll forgive you.”

“Why should she?”

“I didn’t say she _should_ ,” Farkas said impatiently, “I said she would. Why were you with Yvette anyway, Vilkas?”

Vilkas scowled, “What do you mean? She’s beautiful, you’ve seen her.”

“Yes . . . I’ve also _met_ her.”

“Well, maybe if you walked into your room to find her pleasuring herself on your bed, you’d reconsider.”

Farkas shook his head. “What’s the truth?”

Vilkas sighed dejectedly. “I don’t know, I was walking away from her and . . .” he shook his head. “I was angry, she used it to manipulate me.”

“If you don’t learn to control it, Brother, that anger will cause you to lose everything.”

Farkas looked up to see Cyréne walking across the training yard, and jerked his head toward her. Vilkas took a deep breath and approached her slowly. Farkas watched his brother’s posture stiffen in aggression as he got closer to Cyréne. _That’s not good_.

* * *

 

Their exchange started off smoothly, but went downhill quickly.

“I wasn’t aware I owed you an explanation for my actions, Whelp!” Vilkas barked.

“Me? You think my jealousy is what’s wrong here? Vilkas, I thought—“

“You thought what, Cyréne?”

Farkas came to stand behind Cyréne and put a hand on her shoulder. “What’s going _on,_ Brother?” he asked pointedly.

“Cyréne is trying to explain to me why I owe her an explanation about who I bed,” Vilkas sneered.

Farkas’s jaw clenched and he gave his brother a hard look.

Cyréne tried again, “I’m sorry Vilkas,” she said softly. She looked up at him, but he was looking at his brother. “Perhaps, I have no right, but I don’t want you to get hurt—“

“Then you should spend more time on your training and stop imagining relationships that aren’t there.”

Cyréne stepped back as though she’d been struck and prayed to eight of the divines that Vilkas would walk away before she broke down.

Farkas turned her toward him and pulled her to his chest. “Just leave, Vilkas,” he said quietly.

Cyréne heard the sound of heavy footsteps and the slamming of a door.

“He’s gone,” Farkas said gently. Cyréne’s shoulders shook. Farkas sighed and held her close, saying nothing.

After a few moments Cyréne looked up at him, eyes wet. “What happened?” she asked miserably. “I couldn’t have misunderstood . . . everything?”

Farkas cursed his brother silently and placed a chaste kiss on Cyréne’s forehead. “You didn’t.”

“Then what happened?”

Farkas opened his mouth to answer her, but was cut short by Vilkas storming back into the training yard.

Cyrene motioned for him to leave them, and he gave her a quick squeeze and headed inside, shooting Vilkas a warning look on the way.

Vilkas approached her, sword drawn. “Arm yourself!” he snarled.

“No.”

He slung his sword to the ground, “Fine, without weapons then.”

Cyréne’s temper flared. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Vilkas?”

“Nothing that another bedding of my lovely ex-wife can’t fix.”

Cyréne paled. “I apologized for overstepping my bounds, there’s no need to be cruel.”

“Cruel? You would monitor even my words now?”

Cyréne bit back her anger. “Stop playing games, Vilkas. You must know that I care for you, even if you don’t return my feel—“

“I don’t,” he said coldly

“You . . .don’t?”

“I don’t”

“You’re a liar!” she growled.

“What did you call me?” Vilkas’s eyes flashed.

“I said you’re a gods damned liar” she said, refusing to be intimidated. “Why are you acting this way?”

“I can smell him on you, Cyréne!” Vilkas snarled.

She faltered and took a step back, “What?” she whispered.

Vilkas advanced on her, furious. “I can smell him all over you, _in you –_ it’s like I’m _there!_ So don’t tell me you have feelings.”

Cyréne’s eyes darkened and she shoved him. “Let me get this straight,” she said, voice laced with anger, “I find you dick-deep in that poisonous bitch not an hour after you left our bed, and you have the BALLS to bring me to heel for a drunken fuck with the savior of the world?! You arrogant son—“

Vilkas grabbed her arms and jerked her up violently, “I said I can smell him on you Cyréne. You weren’t drunk an hour ago.”

“And you weren’t drunk at all”

Vilkas’s grip on her arms tightened painfully and she relented. “Please, Vilkas, don’t do this to us. People make mistakes. That’s all this was, us making mistakes.”

“I didn’t make a mistake,” he said coldly, dropping her arms.

“Vilkas, I . . . . I love you” she whispered fiercely, “What can I do to make this right between us?” She reached for him, but he slapped her hands away.

“You can stay away from my brother.”

The implication hit her like a punch in the gut. “Don’t you _dare,_ you son of a bitch. I would NEVER—“

“You were in his arms moments ago, or have you been with so many men lately you can’t remember.”

“You know that’s not true,” she said softly

“Not yet – how do I know who you’ll spread your legs for next?”

Cyréne was beside herself. She shoved him again and snarled in his face “I’ll tell you how you’ll know, you arrogant piece of shit. You’ll hear the Thu’um when I bring him pleasure and you’ll smell it all over me, because I’m going to let him do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, as many times as he wants and I’m going to enjoy every second of it!”

Vilkas slapped her before he knew what he was doing, “Whore!”

“Coward!” she spat back, holding her cheek. Her eyes welled with tears.

_The wolf snarled furiously, snapping at Vilkas with teeth bared. Look at her! Even now her eyes beg you to stop. Even now she’ll forgive you._

_Then I haven’t hurt her as much as she’s hurt me._

“Maybe you’ll be able to stop yourself from leading the Dragonborn to his death.”

Cyréne’s voice was low and dangerous, “If you were anyone else, I’d kill you for that.”

_The wolf whined and stepped back._

“You could try, but you’ll find I won’t go as willingly to my death as Caldor.”

Pain and betrayal cut through her like a razor. _No one would speak of Caldor that way! No one!_ The snap of her restraint echoed like an explosion in Cyréne’s mind. Any love she harbored for Vilkas went cold. She advanced on him, blind with rage. A snarl ripped from her throat. Her lips were thinned, her teeth barred like an animal’s. _Some things were unforgivable._ A bright light shot from her hand and a wave of sickening fear hit Vilkas. There was a moment where she went from being Cyréne – his beautiful, angry, hurt, human Cyréne – to something different. Her eyes were wild. _What have I done you, Love? I’m sorry!_ Then there was a sound like thunder and he felt his body lurch as time slowed down. She was on him in an instant.

It was happening so slowly, yet it was happening so fast. He was in his body, he was out of it. There was a dagger, a searing pain, hot light, cold words. Everything was clear, yet his brain couldn’t make sense of it. But there was Cyréne, and her eyes were wrong, and everything was moving in slow motion. Then the forces of Nirn were back under their own control and she was gone.

Vilkas fell forward, almost sick, as his body slammed back into time and everything that had just happened rushed in on him at once. An anguished cry he recognized as his own broke the air, and his hand flew to his side. It came back covered in blood, even as the golden light of a healing spell swirled around him and the wound closed. His brain finished processing her words and he finally heard them as though she were still there.

“You get on your knees and thank Hircine that he owns your soul, because if he didn’t, I would rip it from your body.”

The dagger, covered in his blood lay on the ground in front of him. When he realized it was silver, he vomited.

_The wolf raised his muzzle to the sky and howled._


	8. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If we are to judge of love by its consequences, it more nearly resembles hatred than friendship." - Francois de La Rochefoucauld

Several hours later, the door to Kodlak’s study opened and the old man called for Skjor.

Cyréne had spared no detail of the encounter with Kodlak – she’d been too upset. When she’d appeared at his door with a worried Farkas trailing behind her, she’d been shaking with rage and barely able to speak. Kodlak had immediately posted Farkas at the door to prevent interruptions and eased her down into a chair, urging her to breathe. Kodlak was privy to all of Cyréne’s secrets, and she did not hesitate to bare her soul.

“I could have killed him, Kodlak. I almost did.”

“But you didn’t, Cyréne. You remained in control.”

“I was reckless. What if I’d cut him deeper than I . . .” she swallowed and forced out the truth, “wanted to? What if I’d become too distracted to heal him?”

Kodlak nodded. “We won’t consider that now. I don’t believe you would have allowed that to happen, no matter what your feelings.”

Cyréne pinched the bridge of her nose and took a shaky breath. “What I did was . . . wrong. It was so wrong.”

“Tell me why it was wrong,” Kodlak said,

Cyréne raised tortured eyes to his.

“Tell me why, Cyréne. Why was it wrong?”

“I slashed his side open with a silver dagger, Kodlak. Everything about it was wrong. I used the one thing that I knew would hurt him the most and I used a spell that is much too powerful to be trifled with. I . . . I don’t know why you still suffer my presence here.”

Kodlak uncrossed his arms and moved from where he’d been leaning against his table to sit down across from Cyréne.

“Responsible use of spell craft aside – for that is a matter on which I must defer to you – I see no difference in what Vilkas did to you, other than motivation. If anything, you showed more restraint.”

“How so?” she asked cautiously.

“Vilkas took the one thing that he knew would hurt you more than anything else and used it to cause you as much pain as possible. He was truly vicious, Cyréne. You accuse yourself of losing control, but did you, really? You retaliated, certainly, in much the same fashion as you were attacked, by using a known weakness against him. But you only caused harm that you knew could be repaired—“

“But he will still feel the pain of the injury!” she interrupted.

“As he should, and as will you. No, Cyréne, if anything I question Vilkas’s honor in this, not yours.”

“I cut him, badly.”

“For another, that would be unforgiveable, perhaps. For you, given your skills and intent - it’s not the same. You dealt punishment, not careless injury.”

“Does that not make it worse? I am not fit to judge any of my shield-siblings, or decide their punishment.”

Kodlak smiled. “A mark of a true leader. Do you remember the conversation you and I had on the night of your induction into the companions?”

Cyréne’s brow furrowed, “Yes, I wanted to know about the beast-blood.”

“Bah!” Kodlak said with a small shake of his head. “What you wanted was to know how to control the beast. You searched even then for a hint that the power might lend itself to abuse or recklessness. You said something that night that stays with me, daughter.”

Cyréne’s eyes widened and she swallowed. “I am unworthy of that title,” she whispered, “especially on this day.”

Kodlak sighed. “It is yours, none-the-less. You told me, on that night, that what you feared most, with the beast-blood, your position and all the rest was power without accountability. ‘Power without accountability’ you told me, ‘is what will always threaten to end the world’, remember?”

She nodded.

“And,” Kodlak continued, “I promised to always hold you accountable for your actions, no matter the circumstances, did I not?”

“You did.”

“And, where did you come, immediately after your deed?”

“To you.”

Kodlak ruffled her hair. “Ah, but perhaps that was just to get your side of the story heard first?” he jested.

A small smile flickered across Cyréne’s face before she spoke. “He will never forgive me, and if he tells the others – they’ll never forgive me either. They won’t understand, won’t trust me . . .” she buried her face in her hands. “Oh, what have I done?”

“Do you seek his forgiveness, then?” Kodlak questioned

“No,” she said coldly, “only yours.”

“You have it.”

“And my punishment?”

“Will not come at my hands, child.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “I see your heartbreak, even through your anger.”

Cyréne trembled and forced herself to meet Kodlak’s eyes. She steadied her voice before speaking. “I fear you greatly underestimate the damage that’s been done.”

Kodlak’s eyebrows rose.

“My heart felt pain when I found him with another,” Cyréne said softly. “It broke, when he struck me, but now . . .” Cyréne looked at the old man hopelessly. “The love I felt for Vilkas is gone – it’s like someone died. There is only emptiness where it should be, and anger – not just over what he said - but that, because of the love I felt for him I am going to lose everything. I can’t stay here – as much as I need this place, as much as I need you, and my . . . my family. I can’t stay.”

Kodlak nodded and went to the door to call in Skjor.

* * *

 

Cyréne watched Skjor’s face as Kodlak gave only as much explanation as necessary about what was going on.

“Although I don’t feel Cyréne bears any more of the blame than Vilkas,” Kodlak told him, “she has offered to leave—.”

“Have you talked to Vilkas?” Skjor interrupted.

“I will,” Kodlak answered.

Skjor nodded and looked at Cyréne. “Where will you go?”

“I have houses in Windhelm and Markarth,” she answered, seeing no reason to lie anymore. “I hold the title of Thane in those holds and I can be reached through the court of several Jarls.”

“Is that all?” Skjor said, eyebrow raised.

“No.” She took a deep breath. “I can also be reached at the College of Winterhold. I’ll give you all of the contact information I have.”

Skjor nodded. “You should know that Kodlak and I had been discussing your admission to the circle.”

Cyréne hung her head. _So this is what it will cost me. Fitting._

When she said nothing Skjor continued, “We should make it official before you leave.”

Cyréne’s head jerked up, “What?”

Kodlak and Skjor exchanged a brief glance, and Cyréne got the distinct impression that she had just that moment gained Skjor’s favor.

“I agree,” Kodlak said. “Go with Skjor and work out the details. You may leave in two days. We’ll begin preparations for the ceremony first thing in the morning. We’ll make the announcement tonight.”

Kodlak walked the two of them to the door. Cyréne heard him give an order to Farkas as she walked down the hall with Skjor.

“Farkas, go find your brother and tell him to get in here, now!”

Cyréne stood uncomfortably with Skjor as she gave him a list of her contact information. “Argis the Bulwark, is my house-carl in Markarth. He can be trusted with any message you need to get to me.”

She rattled off a list of contacts and details, including a few low-key ways to get her attention without drawing any, and who could be trusted with what.

 “Also, my resources are available to the Companions whenever they are needed. I can make arrangements for board and aid in advance if you let me know, but I’ll also speak with the right people so that provisions are in place in case of emergency.”

Skjor nodded and finished his notes before looking up at her. “Why all the secrecy, Cyréne?”

She shrugged. “It’s just easier.”

“And, how long has the Harbinger known about all of this?”

“Always.”

“And yet, you didn’t tell him about the offer that Aela and I made you. Why?”

“Because you made it clear that he had no knowledge of that particular offer, and I felt that bound me to secrecy in good faith,” she said in irritation.

“Well, it seems there’s more to you than I gave you credit for. Is all of this why you rejected our offer?”

Cyréne nodded. “In part, yes. I have a lot on my plate, and my constituents at the college are nothing if not . . . observant. There’s also that little matter of my soul no longer being my own. _And it would have hurt Vilkas._ How is it that you’ve decided I should join the circle without the beast-blood, Skjor?”

“You’ve proven yourself capable and worthy to lead.”

“And yet, I feel that you’ve just today decided to support me.”

Skjor’s lips inched up slightly. “Well, I was hoping you’d come around to my way of thinking. But I’ve been around long enough to recognize true potential when I see it, and I don’t intend to lose your skills to that damn college.”

“Thank you,” she said curtly.

“You’re welcome. When the old man and I finish talking to Vilkas, I’ll have his brother get him out of here so that you can prepare to leave and get ready for the ceremony.”

“About that, what will be required of me?”

“Normally the ceremony requires participation from all of the circle members—“

“I doubt you’ll be getting any from Vilkas.”

“He’ll do what we tell him to,” Skjor growled. “How did this happen anyway, pup? The two of you were like littermates a few days ago?”

Cyréne shrugged, stone-faced.

“Surely that little ebony-haired whore of his didn’t cause all of this?”

Cyréne bristled, “Don’t insult me! I wouldn’t bear the shame of allowing something like that to fuel my actions.” _Although my litter-mate would._

“Then what?”

“You’ll have to ask, Vilkas. I don’t know.”

“Very well. Go make your preparations and keep all of this to yourself. Anyone who asks will be told you’re leaving for an extended job. See Eorlund to get fitted for your new armor – I’m sure Kodlak’s already had him working on it. I’ll send Aela to you to give you details on the ceremony.”

“Thank you.”

Skjor watched Cyréne walk away and then headed back down the hall. He nodded to Farkas to stand aside, so that he could enter Kodlak’s chambers, where he could already hear Vilkas yelling.

 

* * *

 

 

“This is your doing, Vilkas, not hers,” Kodlak said.

“Harbinger, you can’t be serious!”

“I am.”

“Do you not hear what I’m telling you?” Vilkas insisted. “She cut me open with a silver dagger!”

Skjor’s jaw tightened but he held is peace.

“Where Vilkas? Show me,” Kodlak sighed.

Vilkas jerked his hand to his shirt. “Do you not see the blood?!”

Kodlak caught Skjor’s eye and held it. “The wound, Vilkas; show us the wound.”

Vilkas jerked up his shirt, his voice strangled with frustration. “Here! It was here!”

“That’s barely a scratch, boy!” Skjor growled. “Where’s the wound that caused that blood?”

“It’s that one,” Kodlak said.

Skjor glared at Vilkas. “Explain yourself!”

“She healed me, somehow,” Vilkas said quickly, “but she left the dagger right in front of me – the _silver_ dagger, coated to the hilt in _my_ blood!”

Skjor narrowed his good eye at Vilkas. “And how did she manage all of that?” he sneered. “What were you doing while she murdered you and brought you back from the dead?”

Vilkas’s frustration knew no bounds. “She used magic – she’s a damn witch, is what she is – she can’t be trusted. She dishonors the Companions!”

“And you did nothing?” Skor prompted.

Vilkas was too angry to weigh his words. “I struck her, but not to kill.”

“You stuck her? Where?”

“Across the face! Surely you—“

“Why?” Skjor interrupted.

“Because she . . . she . . .”

“Because she wouldn’t cower in front of you?” Kodlak interrupted angrily. “And when she didn’t strike you back? What then, Vilkas? Is that when you dishonored the name of the man she grieves? Is that when you took a death that she blames on herself, and threw it in her face?”

Skjor’s eyebrows rose.

“Words!” Vilkas insisted. “Only words, not a dagger in the side!”

“No,” Kodlak said, “not a dagger in the side, Vilkas.”

_Worse._

After a moment, Skjor spoke. “Cyrene is leaving in two days—”

“Are we to let a traitor stay in our midst that long?” Vilkas objected.

“Hold your tongue, boy!” Skjor barked. “Cyréne is leaving in two days, of her own volition. She is not being punished. We are inducting her into the circle tomorrow night. You will be there.”

“What!?” Vilkas shrieked. “After what she’s done?! After she tried to kill a fellow Companion?!”

“If she’d been trying to kill you,” Skjor snarled, “you’d be dead!”

Kodlak nodded. “That is all, Vilkas. You’re dismissed.”

“You’ll be there tomorrow night and you won’t cause any more problems before then, if you value your place here,” Skjor said as he walked Vilkas to the door.

“This isn’t right,” Vilkas muttered.

“Vilkas,” Kodlak said calmly.

“Yes, Harbinger . . .”

“You say Cyréne is not to be trusted?”

“Aye.”

“Tell me,” Kodlak mused, “How long did you know about Caldor’s death before you threw his name in her face?”

Vilkas swallowed and tried to push down his anger. He moved to leave but Skjor blocked the door.

“How long, Vilkas?” Skjor said.

Finally he answered. “Two days.”

Skjor opened the door and Vilkas stormed out.

“Follow him,” Skjor said to Farkas. “Keep him out of trouble, and make sure you’re both back by sunset tomorrow.”

Farkas nodded and leapt after his brother.

 


	9. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all seek comfort and healing and the human touch.

The next morning

Cyréne tried not to fidget as Eorlund slowly buckled the straps of her almost complete wolf armor. The quality was flawless, but she was itching to get to War Maiden’s and adjust the fit. Eorlund, however, wouldn’t hear of it, so here she stood waiting impatiently for the legendary smith to do something she could do herself in half the time. Finally he finished marking the adjustments and she carefully shrugged off the armor and stretched her arms above her head with a sigh.

From behind her, a muscled arm slid around her waist, and she jumped nearly knocking Eorlund’s tools into disarray. Her view of the old man’s glare was quickly and mercifully blocked out by a large bunch of Dragon’s Tongue flowers tied together with a satin ribbon.

“To remind you of your favorite part of me,” Kalv whispered seductively in her ear.

“Thank you,” Cyrene mumbled, trying to ignore the tingle that ran down her spine as he pulled her flush against his chest.

“My pleasure,” he said smoothly. His breath caressed her neck as he planted a quick  kiss there. “Can I interest you in a ride?”

Cyréne’s face flamed red and she stiffened and didn’t answer. _He did not just say that!_

Kalv’s laughter rumbled around her after a moment. “I meant a ride on horseback.” He said lowly.

‘Yes, I’d like that,” she managed, after a second wave of embarrassment. “Do I have time to change clothes?”

“Of course,” he said, still amused.

Cyréne untangled herself from his grasp and started down the steps of Skyforge, flowers in hand. “I won’t be long. How are we riding?”

Kalv followed her. “I have two horses waiting, but I’d be happy to have you ride with me.”

Cyréne nodded. Kalv fell into step beside her and in a few moments he was holding open the door of Jorrvaskrr for her.

“Oh good, dear, you found her,” Tilma said with a smile.

The mead hall was buzzing with activity as preparations for the night’s celebration were being made. Cyréne left Kalv leaning against a wooden pillar with his arms crossed and hurried downstairs to her bed. She laid the bouquet on her pillow and searched through the clothes she’d yet to pack. If she’d been in any mood to smile she would have, when her hands ran across an outfit at the bottom of the pile. She held it up for a moment before setting it aside, only to come back to it and consider it again. With a shrug she unfolded it. She wiggled into the fitted black suede leggings and matching boots, before pulling the low cut, long sleeve tunic over her head. She smiled at the feel of the fine gray-purple silk against her skin and smoothed the tunic down. It fell just to mid-thigh. Feeling better than she had in a while, she fastened the black brushed leather corset and adjusted the arm straps before pulling the wide belt tight and lacing on matching bracers. She secured a knee length cloak behind her shoulders and dug in the chest by her bed for her favorite weapon – which none of the Companions had ever seen. Smiling with pride as she felt the familiar comfort of the double enchantment, she secured the daedric dagger to her belt. _Free yourself from one little secret and suddenly you’re free as a bird with all of them, huh?_

“What do you think?” Cyréne asked Torvar as he entered the whelp room.

Torvar regarded her in buzzed interest for a moment before slurring, “Cyréne? S’that you?”

“Uh, yeah.”

He shook his head and peered at her. “whatever Vilkas is doing – I’d do it for you twice.”

“Alright,” she said, slightly uncomfortable, “thanks, I guess.”

When she entered the mead hall she found Kalv with an armful of decorations, dutifully following Tilma about the room. She watched for a moment as Kalv teased the old woman and Tilma laughed and swatted his arm. He was clad in light leather trousers and boots, with an armored leather vest over a white tunic. She smiled, taking in the handsome hero.

“There you are, dear” Tilma said when she noticed Cyréne, “and doesn’t she look lovely?”

“She does,” Kalv agreed easily.

Tilma winked at Cyréne and, taking back her decorations, shooed the couple out of the door.

“You do look beautiful,” Kalv said when they were outside.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling briefly.

“I hear you’re getting a promotion,” Kalv said as they made their way through town.

“Yes.”

“Tilma invited me to the party. I’d like to come, if you’ll allow me.”

“Of course.”

They passed a group of guards, who were looking in their direction with interest. Kalv placed a hand on the small of Cyréne’s back and sent a scowl their way.

“Um, is this inappropriate?” she asked lowly, not missing his cue to the guards.

“Is what?”

She gestured at herself, “My clothing.”

“Of course not, why?”

“I feel as if people are staring at me.”

“That’s because you’re beautiful, not inappropriate.”

Cyréne fidgeted nervously with her bodice and Kalv kept his eyes from wandering to the slight peek of her cleavage with monumental effort.

“Is that a daedric dagger attached to your belt?” he asked, changing the subject.

“It is,” she said, pleased that he noticed. “I smithed it myself, and enchanted it.”

“That is impressive” he said genuinely, “Perhaps you’ll allow me a closer look at it later?”

 “Sure.”

 “Are you apprenticing with Eorlund then?”

“No!” Cyréne snorted. “The two of us don’t really get along that well, and I honestly don’t think he’d touch a daedra heart with a great sword, much less allow one to besmirch his holy Skyforge. The Companions don’t even know I smith – or enchant.” _Shut up, Cyréne! Why are you spilling your guts to this guy?_

“Really?” he said in surprise, “Skills like that would surely be appreciated. I’d be happy to pay you to enchant some things for me, if you’re interested – and if you are truly skilled at it.”

Cyréne stopped in front of War Maiden’s and unsheathed the dagger, then handed it to him carefully. “Don’t cut yourself.”

“I’ve never seen this enchantment,” Kalv said, puzzled. “I can see the chill rising off of it, so it clearly imparts some sort of frost damage . . . but that doesn’t seem exactly right. It has some sort of weird pull to it”

Cyréne nodded at him. “Now I’m impressed. You’re more correct than you know. It’s double enchanted to cause frost damage and absorb health.”

Kalv looked up at her and then back down to the dagger. “That’s amazing! I didn’t know that was even possible.” He handed it carefully back to her as they began walking again.

 

“Kalv, what is it that you want from me, exactly?” she asked, as they passed through the main gate.

“I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

“Well,” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “what I mean, to put it bluntly, is that I’d assume you’d already gotten what you wanted, so I’m a bit surprised to see you.”

Kalv shot her a sideways glance. “Are you disappointed to see me?”

“No! I mean . . . no,  just confused, I guess.”

“Well, Sweetroll, you made it abundantly clear the other night that you were not inclined toward casual flings.”

“I did?”

Kalv chuckled. “Yes, you did. We actually have several outings planned after this one.”

“Oh,” she said in surprise, “I . . . do not remember that part of our evening, I’m sorry.”

“You were quite adorably insistent about it.”

“Oh dear,” she said, smiling sheepishly.

“That’s what I’ve been waiting for, that smile.”

He tilted her chin up and brushed a soft kiss across her lips. Cyréne’s eyes widened and she blinked up at him, lost for a moment in his light green eyes.

He offered her his arm and they walked in silence the rest of the way to the stables. Cyréne’s eyes lit up as they approached, and a few moments later she was reaching up to stroke the nose of a large buff-colored stallion. Kalv motioned for the stable master to take the other horse away and handed Cyréne an apple.

“This is Frost,” Kalv said proudly.

“He’s beautiful!” Cyréne breathed. “Yes, you are,” she cooed at the horse, “You’re such a handsome boy. Would you like an apple?”

Frost’s ears twitched and he nickered at her before carefully taking the apple from her hand and lowering his head into her arms.”

“Well,” Kalv grumbled, “you’re never that nice to me, traitor.”

“He’ll carry us both?” Cyréne asked.

“Easily, are you ready?’

She nodded and stepped back. Kalv swung into the saddle and reached down, pulling her up behind him. “Comfortable?”

“Yes”

“Hold on, then.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist. Kalv guided Frost out of the stable yard and reached down to secure Cyréne’s arms around him, before allowing the impatient stallion to run. Cyréne laid her head against Kalv’s back and closed her eyes, letting the troubles of the last day slip out of her mind as they sped across the tundra in the sunshine.

Too soon, they slowed to a walk and the events of the last day rushed back into Cyréne’s consciousness. Kalv noticed her slight sigh against his back.

“You don’t seem very excited for someone who is about to receive one of the greatest honors in Skyrim. Is something wrong?”

“I’m going to miss this weather,” she murmured, not really paying attention, “I hate winterhold.”

“Are you traveling there soon?” he asked, stopping Frost and reaching back to help her dismount.

Cyréne accepted his arm and soon found her feet on the ground. “I leave tomorrow,” she said unhappily.

“Tomorrow?” he said, surprised. "When will you be back?”

Cyréne watched him slide effortlessly from the saddle and hugged her arms about her. “I don’t know, really.”

“At least give me an estimate,” he said and turned to retrieve something from his saddle bag, “One week? Two?”

“A couple of months, at least.”

Kalv jerked around in surprise and Cyréne, to her horror, flinched away from him and raised a hand in front of her face as if to block a blow. His eyes narrowed and she turned away, mortified.

“I’m sorry,” she said with forced lightness, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

Kalv stood behind her weighing his words. “I don’t hit women” he said quietly. “Unless it’s in battle, and even then,” he admitted, “I usually make Lydia do it.”

 _Oh gods!_ Cyréne thought _I am absolutely ruining this._

Kalv took a step toward her and carefully wrapped one arm around from behind and then the other. “What’s wrong, Cyréne? I know we haven’t known each other long, but you seem like a different person from the woman I woke up with yesterday.”

“That’s because a lot happened yesterday,” she said softly.

“Such as. . .”

_Well I was slapped around and called a whore, which was unpleasant._

Kalv spun her in his arms. His voice was sharp and low. “Who called you that? Who **_HIT_** you?”

Cyréne’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh gods” she whispered in horror “Did I say that out loud?”

“Who did this?” he demanded.

Cyréne shook her head. “I’m sorry! I can’t believe I . . . it’s not what you think, please, forget it.”

“Look at me,” he said.

When she obliged he continued. “Did someone strike you and/or call you . . . that word?”

“Yes, Kalv, but—“

“Then it’s what I think, and I won’t allow it. Who – was – it?”

Cyréne snorted. “You won’t allow it?”

“That’s right. I won’t allow it.”

“Kalv, I don’t belong to you,” she said, shrugging free of his arms, “and I’m not a helpless child that needs your protection.”

He looked down at her patiently. “I understand that, Cyréne, but never-the-less—“

“And just _what_ are you going to do about it, exactly?” she said, irritated.

“That depends on who I will be doing it too. Now, who was it?”

Cyréne crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “It was Tilma,” she lied.

“Well then,” Kalv said briskly, “we should get back immediately.”

“Why?”

“Because, I have,  just huge amounts of decorations to tear down.”

Cyréne grinned, “You’re not serious.”

He extended his hand, “Right now, young lady. I have wreaths to shred, flowers to step on. . .”

Cyréne shook her head and smiled. She approached him and pressed the briefest kiss against his lips before backing away. Unclasping her cloak, she spread it on the ground amidst the tall grass and then sat down. She reached behind her back and began unfastening her corset.

Kalv watched her, unmoving until she was down to only her smalls. She crossed her legs and leaned back on her elbows with only her golden tresses covering her bare breasts. He looked around for a moment.

“What?” he asked finally, “should my response be to this?”

“You should be distracted from your current mission,” she said with a sly smile.

“Done. Then what?”

“You should join me.”

He smirked. “Move your hair,” he dared.

Cyréne smiled at him for a moment, gathering her courage and then closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and shook out her long locks. When she opened her eyes again he was down to his boots and closing in on her with a predatory gleam in his eyes. He lowered himself over her. His amulet of Talos swung between them.

“You really are a naughty little minx aren’t you?” he teased between hungry kisses.

“Only when I’m around you,” she teased back.

“Well then, we must spend more time together.” He nipped at her ear and then drew back slightly, brow quirked. “Did I just feel the tingle of a spell, Sweetroll?”

“Invisibility.”

“Ah, so not too naughty, then,” he grinned.

“Are you disappointed?”

“Not at all . . . I don’t want Frost getting an eyeful.”

“What?” she laughed.

“I saw the way you fed him that apple,” he whispered accusingly. “He’s probably already planning to throw me to my death so that he can become your horse.”

“You’re crazy” she giggled.

“Crazy for you my naughty, naughty, little naked Sweetroll.”

It was late afternoon when they returned. Kalv escorted Cyrene to Jorrvaskr and plucked a piece of grass from her hair, before he opened the door for her.

“You tell Tilma that her decorations will live to see another day,” he whispered, “but just this once.”

“You’ll be here tonight?” she asked.

Kalv smiled down at her and kissed her on the nose. “I wouldn’t miss it”.

“Bring Lydia, if she’d like to come, please.”

“Only if you promise to give me two kisses for every one you give to her.”

“I promise.”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

 

* * *

 

Vilkas woke with a pounding headache and a barmaid on each side. He blinked groggily and untangled himself from the sleeping women with some effort. His brother was waiting for him outside of the inn, expressionless. They didn’t speak as they headed for Whiterun.

After an hour or so on the road, Farkas spoke. “Feel better, now?”

“No.”

“I heard what she did.”

“And?” Vilkas said tiredly.

“I heard what you did too.”

“And?”

“And, you’re both wrong. You belong together.”

Vilkas didn’t answer.

“And,” Farkas continued, “I’m supposed to keep you out of trouble, so don’t start any.”

“Fine.”


	10. When You Least Expect It

The ceremony was tense, but thankfully short. Cyréne and Vilkas didn’t look at each other and though the others noticed the tension, they ignored it. When the last words were spoken Kodlak held up his hands for silence and nodded at Aela. The Huntress stepped forward with something in her hands and paused in front of Cyréne.

Kodlak began speaking again. “Cyréne, you are the first in hundreds of years to join the ranks of the circle without joining your blood with ours.”

“You have chosen weakness over strength,” Skjor said. “But, you’ve chosen it honorably in order to protect our secrets.”

“At the same time, you have also chosen strength over weakness,” Farkas added. “The weakness we know will not affect you.”

“And so we give you this,” Aela said, “as a symbol of our joining.”

There was a pause, as they waited for Vilkas to say his part. When he didn’t speak Aela opened her mouth to finish for him, but Farkas put his hand on her arm to stop her. He looked expectantly at Vilkas, who maintained his stormy silence.

Farkas spoke too low for Cyréne to hear him, although the others could hear him clearly. “Brother, do not let your anger cloud your judgment. You won’t be able to undo this if you regret it later.”

Vilkas’s jaw tightened and he closed his eyes, his anger palpable.

_The wolf pushed at him._

Even through her own anger, Cyréne couldn’t help but be deeply hurt. Vilkas was her shield-brother, he’d taken her on her first mission, he’d sworn to stand by her, but now . . . there was only silence. She swallowed the lump in her throat, stared at the ground in front of her and waited for Aela to say his part.

“May our strength carry you through your weakness, and may your strength carry us through ours.”

Their eyes met as he said the words. For the briefest moment, they knew each other again. He finished speaking and the moment was gone.

Aela stepped close to Cyréne and opened her gloved hands to reveal a long delicate chain. Suspended on it was an intricate charm of a wolf sitting in tall grass howling at the two moons. The wolf’s eyes were tiny sapphires – everything else was made of silver.

Aela secured the necklace around Cyréne’s neck and gave her a lightning-quick hug. “Welcome, to the Circle, Sister.”

Even Vilkas walking away couldn’t suppress Cyréne’s smile.

“Thank you, it’s beautiful. I will wear it always.”

Skjor laughed and clapped her on the shoulder as he headed inside. “Enjoy yourself, pup. Tonight is for drinking – leave everything else until tomorrow!”

“Well spoken!” Kodlak agreed. “Even this old warrior plans to join the celebration tonight.” He embraced Cyréne and then followed Skjor.

Farkas swept her into Jorrvaskr in a breath-stealing bear hug. The hall was full of people. Cheers and calls for a speech went up as soon as they entered. Farkas stood Cyréne up on a chair and handed her a huge tankard of mead.

The room quieted. Cyréne looked around for a moment and then spoke.

“Companions, friends and those of you just here for the mead, (the crowd chuckled). I am honored to stand before you tonight as a member of this family. We are brothers and sisters bound by honor, strengthened by battle and tested through time.”

 She turned to where the Companions stood beside her. “Companions, I give you my vow. I will stand at your backs so that the world may not overtake us. My sword is always ready to meet the blood of your foes. You are my family and I can think of no greater honor than to pledge my faith to you.”

 She turned her gaze back to the guests. “I say to you now, words worthy of the Legendary Companions, words that have echoed through these halls since the time of Ysgramor himself: “Let’s drink!”

Loud cheers rang out and bards started to play.

Farkas lifted her off the chair into another hug and set her on the floor. “Let’s drink, Sister!”

Cyréne found herself laughing as Athis congratulated her and immediately started asking her to deal out shitty jobs to Torvar. Njada was next to offer her congratulations, followed by Torvar himself. Cyréne looked around for Ria and finally located her hovering over Vilkas as he nursed his mead.

“Get used to that sight,” Njada said in her ear.

“What him drinking, or her hovering?” Cyréne asked with a grin.

“Hmph! Both,” Njada replied. “Although I’ve no doubt her hovering will turn to her throwing herself at him, sooner or later.”

Cyréne just shrugged in response.

She looked up to see Kalv and Lydia standing by the door. They were both smiling at her and finally she was able to make her way to them through the throng of people. She’d noticed Lydia’s eyes wandering to Farkas, so she dragged him over with her and the two of them were soon moving to the table together.

“Congratulations,” Kalv said as he embraced her.

“Thank you for coming. It means a lot to me.”

“My pleasure! I think everyone in Whiterun is here!”

“What kind of armor are you wearing?” she asked running her fingers over the unique chest plate, “It looks like something out of a legend.”

Kalv guided her into a corner. “Well, that’s because it almost is. It’s the armor of the Blades.”

Cyrene looked at him in shock. “The Blades? You mean the former body guards of the Emperor?’

“The very same.”

“I thought all of the agents were killed during the Great War,” she said, eyes wide.

“Almost all of them – tell you what, now is not the time to discuss it, but promise me another outing before you leave tomorrow, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Deal!”

He nodded and moved away from her as well-wishers pressed in on them to congratulate her. From the across the room Vilkas watched as Kalv started up an easy conversation with the person standing next to him.

* * *

As they often do, the hours passed quickly among friends and soon it was well after midnight.

Vilkas had been drinking more steadily than most all night. Ria was chattering on about something beside him, and a barmaid had somehow made her way onto his lap and was pressing herself against him. Vilkas nodded when appropriate and occasionally turned his head to give the willing bar-maid a smoothly spoken line. But for the most part, his attention was glued to Cyréne and the Dragonborn.

No matter where the man went, he always seemed to be aware of Cyréne’s exact location. To the casual observer the Dragonborn wasn’t being obvious, but there was nothing casual about Vilkas’s attention and the wolf caught all of the other man’s possessive cues to the men around him. A hand on the small of her back, a word or two whispered in her ear, the occasional warning glare to any male that got to close.

When the throng cleared a little, Cyréne got a wide and unwanted view of the barmaid on Vilkas’s lap stroking him under the table as she pressed her almost exposed chest to his face.

Vilkas saw saw the pain flash in her eyes and his heart twisted in his chest. He felt the sting of guilt and regret. It hurt, and there was nothing he could do about it now. It was destined to hurt for a long, long time. He didn’t want to be here again, feeling betrayed and discarded, no matter how he’d arrived, so he turned his attention to the woman on his lap, the one that wanted him – or at least part of him, even if it was only for a while.

Cyréne turned her head as Vilkas whispered in the woman’s ear and the two of them got up to head downstairs. When they disappeared downstairs, Cyréne took a shaky breath and breathed a sigh of relief that was slightly tinged with anger – mostly at herself for giving a damn, but also at Vilkas for pushing them farther down this road. She thought suddenly about her parents and how easy hurting each other came to them – she’d run to escape it, but now – she was them. She felt her spirits dampen and she longed for freedom.

“That’s who did it isn’t it?” Kalv questioned as he returned to her side.

“Who did what?”

Kalv wasn’t buying her memory loss.

“Please, don’t do anything,” she said anxiously. “I assure you, I repaid him for it.”

Taking her by the elbow, he guided her out onto the back porch. There were a few guests milling around and they clapped Cyréne on the shoulder and toasted her loudly. Once they were able to disengage themselves, the two of them made their way to the lookout post on the other side of the training yard. Cyréne was almost in tears.

Kalv looked down at her, worried. “I won’t do anything, Cyréne, not tonight,”

“Not ever!” she demanded.

His jaw tightened but he gave her a clipped nod. “Is he the reason you’re leaving?”

“I don’t want to talk about this, not tonight.”

“When then? You’re leaving tomorrow. I don’t even know when I’ll see you again.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

He exhaled and pushed a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, but suddenly everything that has to do with you is important to me.”

Cyréne pulled his hand from his hair and held it.

“Kalv,” she said gently, “we’ve only known each other a few days, not even that long really. And, I am leaving. I don’t see how this could work.”

He gave her a pained look. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“For the first time in months, for the first time since I stumbled across the border into this nightmare of being the Dragonborn, I feel like I know what I’m fighting for. You, in these few days, have given me something to hold onto. I don’t know how to explain it to you, and I should be a better man than to lay it on you like this, but . . .”

Cyréne’s eyes were wide. She moved her hand to his cheek, “but . . .”

He took a breath and covered her hand with his, “but you’re the calm in the storm I’m facing. You take away the chaos. When I’m with you, the world makes sense again. I don’t want to be without you.”

Cyréne looked at him in confusion, “So, you . . . need me?” _Everyone needs me._

“Yes”

“So that you can save the world?” _Tell me that you want me._

“Yes”

“Ah, no pressure there,” she said with a wink.

He turned his face and kissed her palm. “I wa—“

His words were cut off as he snatched her to him and pulled her to the ground between his body and the stone wall, his arms sheltering her head. “Are you alright?” he said urgently.

“Yes, I’m fine. What’s wrong?”

Still holding her close, he nodded toward where she’d been standing. There was a red and black feathered arrow dripping with poison embedded in the wooden post. If Kalv hadn’t pulled her down, it would have impaled her throat.

Cyréne’s heart hammered in her chest. “Is that what I think it is?” she breathed.

He nodded and scanned the training yard trying to determine the safest route inside, “the Dark Brotherhood.”


	11. Simple Instructions

The next arrow struck a guest in the back. The people standing around her shrieked and ran as she fell forward.

"What's the trouble?" a guard shouted as he came running around the corner. An arrow pierced his neck and he fell.

"Cyréne, no!" Kalv yelled as she scrambled out of his arms.

She ducked low and started across the training yard. Kalv snatched a practice shield from the wall and fell in behind her, blocking them both, as she headed toward the injured woman. It was Olfina Gray-Mane. She was gasping for air as the poison from the arrow seeped into her body.

Cyréne flipped a table over and dragged Olfina behind it. "Hold on!" she whispered.

Kalv followed suit and peered out across the plains into the darkness. "Laas Yah Nir!" he whispered. A red glow of energy appeared in the darkness of the plains. "You're a dead man!" he shouted. He pulled the bow and arrows from the dead guard and began firing a volley of them in the direction of the glow.

The screams of the guests had alerted some of the other Companions to the danger.

"No!" Cyréne yelled as Farkas opened the door. An arrow whizzed past her and lodged itself in the door beside his head. His eyes flashed a dangerous gold.

Cyréne grabbed his hand and tugged him down. "Get the others. Go out the front and through the Underforge!"

Farkas nodded and made his way back inside.

Kalv was letting arrows fly as fast as he could draw.

"He's hit!" he said suddenly, "Two arrows, one to the shoulder and the other to the arm. He won't be doing anymore long-range damage."

He sprang from his position behind the table. "Lydia, let’s go!" He was sprinting out into the night before Cyréne could say anything.

* * *

"I'm sorry," Cyréne whispered to Olfina, "This is going to hurt." She took a deep breath, got a solid grip on the arrow and pulled.

Olfina's scream of pain split the night. She fell forward into Cyréne's arms. Cyréne heard the scrape of the Underforge opening and moments later a chorus of howls echoed in the darkness.

Cyréne ripped the back of Olfina's dress and pushed frantic fingers into the wound.

"I'm so sorry," she said as Olfina screamed again, "I have to stop the poison."

She began drawing energy to her fingertips – cold to stop the poison from spreading. She pushed further into the wound as Olfina sobbed in her arms. Under the pressure of her fingers, black clots of sticky blood were being forced out. Olfina struggle against her and Cyréne's fingers slipped. Suddenly Jon Battleborn was by her side.

"Hold her still!" Cyréne ordered. "We don't have any time to lose. The more she moves the more the poison spreads."

Jon nodded and gripped Olfina's arms. She stopped her struggling as he whispered in her ear. Cyréne pressed into the wound again using a piece of Olfina's torn dress to wipe away the black clots.

"Can't you do something for the pain?" Jon growled.

"There's NO TIME!" Cyréne said again.

The blood seeping from the wound slowly turned from black to red, but not before Olfina was convulsing from the pain. Wiping her hands clean, Cyréne hovered them over Olfina's back and strong golden light flowed from her fingertips. The woman's tears began to subside as the wound knit itself closed and disappeared.

"By the eight!" Jon said. "Cyréne, how did you . . .?"

Cyréne slumped against the wall of Jorrvaskr, exhausted. Jon pulled a still shaking Olfina into his arms and stoked her hair soothingly.

"I'm so sorry, Olfina," Cyréne kept saying. "I'm so sorry I hurt you. There was no other way, please forgive me."

Olfina's voice was hoarse when she spoke. "You saved my life, Cyréne. I'll never forget that. Thank you!"

"Thank you," Jon echoed, pulling Olfina closer. "Fina, I thought I was going to lose you, Love." He kissed her forehead and took a shaky breath.

Cyréne felt her strength draining. She felt herself slipping into unconsciousness.

"If either of you breathe a word of this," she said tiredly, "I'll tell your families about your secret." And then she passed out.

* * *

When she finally opened her eyes, Cyréne found herself in a dimly lit room. Someone was breathing rhythmically beside her and holding her hand. She sent up a silent flare of candle light and Vilkas woke from his light sleep in the chair beside his bed.

"Finally," he said, snatching his hand away.

"How long have I been out?"

"A couple of hours, you've had the old man worried sick – as if he needs something else on his mind."

Cyréne sat up slowly with her hand on her forehead trying to ward off the dizziness. It was then that she realized she was in Vilkas's room. Her eyes fell on a woman's undergarment on the floor and when she looked back at Vilkas she immediately saw the mouth-shaped bruise on his neck. For some reason unknown to her, the bruise made her furious. Her hand came up almost as a reflex and Vilkas felt a warm tingle of a spell as Cyréne erased the offending mark from his neck.

She got up quickly. "I'm sorry to have interrupted your evening," she said stiffly. "Forgive me if I don't want to be on this bed."

Vilkas crossed his arms and glared at her. "The bed isn't for bar-maids," he snapped, "the wall is."

"You are disgusting!"

He shrugged. "They haven't complained. And, I don't care what you think about it. What matters now is that you brought the Dark Brotherhood to our doorstep. What _else_ have you done that someone wants you dead?"

She ignored him. "Where are the others?"

"They're still hunting."

Her eyes narrowed. "Last time I checked, Vilkas, whoever was shooting was trying to hit as many people as possible. Why are you blaming this on me?"

"I doubt someone would perform the Black Sacrament for a town guard and Olfina Gray-Mane. You on the other hand . . . given the events of the past few days, I'd say you're capable of anything."

"If you really think that, now would be a good time for you to shut your mouth. I'm going to see Kodlak."

She was about to knock on the Harbinger's door, when there was a commotion at the end of the hall. Kalv came striding in with Lydia on his heels. He wrapped Cyréne to him in an embrace.

“Are you alright?”

"I’m fine," she said quickly. "Did you find anything?"

"Yes, I found the bloody remains of an assassin and a copy of his orders."

Cyréne tried to look surprised. "What did the orders say?"

"That there was rumored to be a celebration going on in Whiterun tonight and he should scope out the party for easy targets or important guests."

"So, there was no specific target?"

"Not that I can see."

"Is that even how the brotherhood is supposed to work? They're just going on killing sprees now?"

"I don't know," Kalv admitted, "but you're safe, and that's all I care about."

Cyréne let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "I'm glad you're alright. I think I've had enough excitement for one night."

"Come home with me."

Nothing sounded better than doing exactly that, but Cyréne shook her head. "I need to be here when the others get back, and I need to tell the Harbinger what you discovered. I'll see you tomorrow, though, before I leave."

For the first time, Kalv noticed Vilkas standing with his arms crossed in the shadows. He glared at him.

"You'll be alright here until they get back?"

Cyréne gave him a reassuring smile. "I'll be fine. Kodlak is here and I'm going to talk to him right now. Go get some rest, please."

"Alright," he said finally. He shot Vilkas another dirty look and kissed Cyréne softly. "Sleep well, sweetheart. I'll see you in the morning."

Cyréne embrace Lydia and then they were gone. She rapped lightly on Kodlak's door and then entered.

"I heard," Kodlak said. "It is better news than if there was a hit out on someone, but still disturbing."

Cyréne nodded and stifled a yawn.

"Go to bed, child. You have a long journey tomorrow. I'll find out what the others know and we can discuss it before you leave."

Cyréne was too tired to protest, so she simply nodded and headed to the sleeping quarters. She was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Down the hall, Vilkas stared at the ceiling above his bed and waited for sleep that would not come.

* * *

In a hidden sanctuary, behind a black door, in the pine forest just west of Falkreath a brown haired Imperial was fuming. "That new recruit nearly got me killed!" she yelled.

"Calm yourself, Sister," Veezara said, putting a hand on her arm.

As she always did, Shaye relaxed under his touch. "I just don't understand why it's so hard to recruit people who follow the rules. They get a little taste of power and they start fighting authority.

"Well, he's dead now!" Arnbjorn cut in.

"Don't you see how ridiculous that makes us look," Shaye insisted. "A botched assassination, and a dead assassin, and this wasn't even a real job. It was just supposed to be scouting."

"Well, what do you suggest?" Astrid said, walking into the main area.

Shaye paled slightly, but spoke her mind. "What I suggest, is what I've been suggesting since I got here. We pick a high profile target, but one that's not too difficult to kill. We should make it someone that most people in Skyrim don't really care about, but who is notable enough to draw attention, and we should assassinate them. That way our name is back in the forefront and more jobs will roll in, possibly some big ones."

Astrid blew out a breath. "And where will we secure the resources for such a project?"

Shaye shrugged. "I'll do it. I can do some recon while I fulfill some smaller contracts. I have a few hunches I want to check out."

"Such as," Astrid queried.

"Well, I owe that bitch Vittoria Vici—"

Astrid raised an eyebrow. "The emperor's cousin? I think not. Put your personal vendettas aside for now, Sister."

Shaye grimaced. "Fine. I hear the College of Winterhold named a new Arch-Mage a while back. Most Nords hate mages, and from what I hear she's not around that much anyway. She might be a good target."

"Perhaps," Astrid conceded. "Who else?"

"I hear bad things about the woman that runs the orphanage in Riften and there are all manner of people in Markarth who could use running through."

Astrid tapped a finger to her lips for a moment before making her decision.

"The Arch-Mage intrigues me. Do your reconnaissance and report back, but don't make any moves until you've cleared it with me. Take your time with this Shaye. If you manage to pull it off correctly, we could be on our way back to the top, but if there's another screw up like the one last night . . . I won't be happy."

"Of course, Astrid," Shaye said with a smile. "I'll make you proud."

"I know you will. It's your only option."


	12. At Least We'll Die Drunk

Cyréne had no idea what time it was when she awoke, but Kalv was shaking her gently.

“Sweetroll,” he whispered. “Get up, or you’re not going to make it to Winterhold by tonight.”

She smiled up at him and raised her arms. He lifted her up and sat down on the bed with her in his lap.

“Do you want me to get your things together while you get dressed?”

She nodded sleepily, but didn’t let go of him. She was warm and relaxed from sleep and he held her close and inhaled the scent of her hair.

“Come on, Sweetheart; wake up,” he said, kissing her eyelids.

“No, hold me,” she mumbled.

“We’re still in Jorrvaskr, Sweet, I don’t think that’s going to go over well.”

Her eyes flew open and she stood up with a pout. He grinned and began gathering her bags. She pulled off her tunic and pulled a dress over her head before lacing up her boots and heading to the wash basin to wash her face and brush her teeth. Kalv handed her satchel to her and picked up her other two bags and they headed out the door.

She shivered in the cool air. “Where are we going on our outing?”

“We don’t have time, Sweet. You have to leave now or you’ll be on the road at night.”

She stopped in her tracks and her eyes welled up.

He chuckled lowly and gave her a sympathetic look, and then put down her bags and hugged her.

“You really don’t want to go do you?”

“It’s not just that,” she said looking up at him, “I want to stay with you.”

He gave her a surprised look, “You do?”

She suddenly wished she hadn’t said anything, but it was too late.

“You don’t want me to stay?”

“Of course I do,” he said quickly. “It’s just . . . since you were leaving, I planned to go to High Hrothgar. I’ve actually been putting it off so I could be with you for the last few days. I should have gone already.”

She nodded. “I understand. I guess this is goodbye then.”

They walked in silence to the carriage, and Kalv put her bags in. Lydia was waiting there and embraced Cyréne.

“Watch yourself out there,” she said. “The road to Winterhold is a dangerous one.”

Cyréne squeezed her tight.

“I will. You two take care of each other, please. I know we just met, but . . .”

“We will.” Lydia assured her. “It’s not like I have a choice,” she whispered loudly.

“Hey Lydia,” Kalv smirked, “Keep it up and you’ll be carrying this stuff so Frost doesn’t have to.”

She shot him a dirty look. “I am _sworn_ to carry your burdens,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

“Oh, wait! I have something for both of you.” Cyréne said.

She dug in one of her bags and pulled out two red bottles.

“I made this the other day. It’s very powerful. It will restore your health completely, very quickly, so save it for when you need it.”

Kalv grinned, “You’re the sweetest Sweetroll I know.” He hugged her again and then swung up onto Frost and they departed with Cyréne watching after them feeling strangely sad.

“We’re waiting for one more traveler and then we’ll be off,” the carriage driver said.

Cyréne wandered over to the stables and stroked the nose of the black mare that was standing in the last stall.

Skulvar yawned, “You’ve had your eye on her for a month, Cyréne. When are you going to give in and buy her?”

“I wish I could, but I’m headed to Winterhold and they don’t have a good stable for her. I’m not going to leave her out in the cold.”

“Aren’t you a thane up there or some such thing?” he said, scratching his chin.

Cyréne looked at him in surprise. “Yes, how did you know that?”

He shrugged, “Got a cousin up there. Maybe the Jarl would have a stable built. They need start rebuilding that place.”

“I think it’s a money issue,” Cyréne said.

“Hmmm. I’ve been looking to expand . . .”

“To Winterhold? There are never any travelers up that way, and the country side is extremely dangerous – you wouldn’t have any business. You just really want me to buy this horse don’t you?” she grinned.

He shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. But if you want to, put in a few words with the Jarl . . . I’m sure he could use a horse or two. It’s not fitting really, for a man of his station not to have his own horses.”

“Jarl Balgruff doesn’t have his own horses.”

“Course he does – or, he did. He’s just too busy to ride them, and Whiterun always has carriage service. Put in a word with the jarl and I’ll see if we can’t work out a deal on the Queen here,” he said. “You rent her enough to have bought her by now.”

“You should be paying me,” Cyréne complained. “Horses need to be exercised and, no offense meant, but Jervar isn’t exactly thorough about it.”

Skulvar frowned and nodded. “Tell me about it,” he muttered. “I tell you what. You at least get the Jarl to send an inquiry and no more rental fees.”

Cyréne sighed, “I’m probably going to be gone for months, but deal. Just make sure Jervar gives her a warm up before he goes running her in circles – and easy on her mouth. He pulls those reins like he’s harvesting potatoes.”

Skulvar grinned at her. “If you ever decide to quit this life of adventure, you should buy my stables when I retire.”

“You’ll never retire, but I’ll think about it.”

“Alright, let’s go!” called the carriage driver.

“I’m coming, Bjorlam!” Cyrene called. She gave the mare a final pat and waved goodbye to Skulvar.

“Take care, Cyréne. I don’t want to lose my best customer!” he called.

Cyréne climbed up in the carriage and sat across from the woman already seated. She had a cloak pulled around her and the hood was low over her face. Cyréne pulled a cloak out of one of her bags and secured it around her shoulders as the carriage jerked forward.

“Gotta love this Skyrim weather,” she said to the woman. “Good morning, by the way. I’m Cyréne.”

The other woman looked up at her with a slightly chilling smile. “Good morning,” Shaye replied. “I’m Tina.” 

 

Shaye wasn’t in the habit of chatting up her possible contracts, but since she was going to be spending several hours stuck in a carriage with Cyréne, she had little choice.

Cyrene fished a small blue and green bottle out of her satchel along with a tiny cup. She poured a sparkly liquid into the cup and offered it to Shaye.

“Feel like warming up?”

Shaye shrugged and accepted the shot. She downed it, expecting to feel the burn of alcohol scorch her throat, but it was actually just a pleasant tingle.

“Wow, that’s smooth,” she couldn’t stop herself from saying.

“Thanks,” Cyréne said, “it’s a bitch to make, but I love it.”

She poured a shot of her own and downed it, before placing the bottle and cup back in her satchel. “Let me know how you’re feeling in a few minutes. You’re welcome to more if it agrees with you.”

“Hey, what about me?” Bjorlam asked.

“Maybe when we get there,” Cyréne replied. “I’d prefer not to die tumbling down a mountain.”

“Here, here,” Shaye muttered.

Within a few minutes, Shaye was feeling warmer and pretty good.

“What’s in that?” she asked Cyréne.

Cyréne smiled. “It’s a secret recipe, but nothing dangerous. Care for another?”

“Definitely!”

 _Nothing like loosening up your traveling companions to make the trip less awful,_ Cyréne thought. She handed Shaye the bottle and cup.

“So,” Bjorlam started, “how’s that Companion of yours Cyréne? What’s his name – Vilkas?”

Cyréne rolled her eyes and shot Shaye an annoyed look. “The Companions are doing well, as always.”

“You two still an item then?” he continued.

“You’re as nosy as a court gossip,” Cyréne said sharply, “and we were never an item, just partners.”

“Traded him in for the Dragonborn, eh?” he joked.

“Also no,” Cyréne said, annoyance apparent, “and also not your business. Why don’t you ask Tina here some questions and leave me be.”

“Oh, thanks,” Shaye muttered as the carriage driver started in on her.

After an hour or so, Bjorlam lost interest in the women’s personal lives and began ignoring them while he sang to himself and concentrated, more or less, on the road. Shaye and Cyréne fell into easy conversation about nothing in particular. They both hated Skyrim weather, but agreed that they’d never go back to Cyrodiil. That little blip of conversation had been a bit intense, and left them regarding each other with a certain knowing respect that could only be found by two people running from the past.

Shaye found that her tongue was loosened significantly by whatever was in that sparkly liquid, and was generally answering with the truth more often than not. She noticed, however that Cyréne asked only about things in general and was careful not to pry into her business, which she found refreshing. _Dammit Shaye! Don’t forget why you’re here._

As the sun began to dip low in the sky they ran out of small talk and Shaye couldn’t help herself. “Man trouble, huh?”

Cyréne shook her head and let out a huff, “Is there any other kind . . . more pointless?”

Shaye thought about that for a moment and then grinned. “It’s definitely the most aggravating kind.”

“I’ll spare you the details,” Cyréne said with a pointed look at the driver’s back. “Are you staying at the inn tonight?”

“Yeah, I planned to. Wanna have dinner together?” _What the fuck was that, Shaye?_

“Sure, why not?” Cyréne shrugged.

Suddenly they heard the howling of wolves; more than a few of them. Bjorlam made a worried sound and tried to steady the suddenly skittish horse.

“Great,” Cyréne said. “Just, great.”

Shaye’s eyes were round. “That sounded like _a lot_ of them, and close.”

Cyréne nodded and stood up in the carriage. “I hope conjuration doesn’t offend you,” she said, “but even if it does, better safe than sorry.”

She closed her eyes and Shaye watched as a glowing swirl of purple and black appeared in each of Cyréne’s hands. Suddenly Cyréne smiled, “There you two are! Long time, no see.” There was a slight crashing sound a huge spectral wolf appeared with a howl, on either side of the carriage. They both looked at Cyréne and wagged their tails.

“Get rid of that pack of trouble-makers will you?” she said.

Shaye could have sworn they nodded before sprinting into the trees.

“What just happened?” she said.

Cyréne looked at her in confusion. “I conjured two familiars. Apollo on the left and Janus on the right.”

“No,” Shaye said, “I know that part, but you conjured specific ones, and they listened to you . . .”

“Yeah,” Cyréne rubbed the back of her neck and sat down. “Conjuration is my favorite school of magic and I’m very good at it. With enough practice, I learned how to search the planes for specific familiars and bring them to me over and over again. It gets easier every time – some sort of bond forms. My theory is that it’s like a magical tether, so to speak. Some sort of residual energy gets left behind as a trail each time they come and go. And they become, well, familiar and almost like they know me – they definitely understand.” She looked up quickly, “Sorry, that’s probably more information than you wanted.”

“It’s actually kind of fascinating,” Shaye said. “What other schools do you favor?”

Cyréne shrugged. “I dabble in all of them. Restoration was my grandmother’s passion, so it’s special to me. Alteration comes in useful occasionally. Illusion doesn’t come so easily to me – I have a hard time keeping up the façade, if you know what I mean. Do you have an interest in magic?”

“I’d like to learn Restoration, I guess . . . and destruction.”

Cyréne smiled. “Restoration comes easiest to most people, although it tends to expend the most energy. Destruction is its opposite, so they’re difficult to master at the same time for a novice - mainly because it gets confusing to find what you’re looking for inside of you. I’d be happy to teach you some basics, if you’re truly interested.”

Just then there was a loud howl followed by snarls and a sizzle off to the right.

“Damn!” Cyréne cursed, “How many of those things are there?”

She pulled the ebony bow from her pack and glanced at Shaye. “Looks like we’re going to have to do this the old fashioned way.”

Shaye was up and pulling her own elven bow out. “Yeah it does, I’ll take the back.”

Cyréne watched the flashes of black through the trees and looked ahead for a break in the tree line. She let her first arrow fly right before the animal appeared and it fell.

“Kill shot!” she called and let two more arrows fly in the direction of the approaching pack. “How’s it going back there, Tina?”

Shaye almost slipped up and forgot her alias – almost.

“I downed two on the road, and one of your wolves just tore the throat out of another one.”

“That has to be Janus, then,” Cyréne said. “He’s not one for unnecessary sparring.”

“Uh . . . Cyréne?” Shaye said warily.

Cyréne let two more arrows fly, one toward each side of the road. “Damnation! There must be a dozen of them. What is it?”

“You should look at this.”

“I’m a little busy at the moment.”

“Well, get un-busy - I think we’re in touble.”

Cyréne spun around and followed Shaye’s gaze into the approaching darkness. A huge werewolf was barreling down on them.

“Anyone you know?” Cyréne asked, pulling back her bow string.

Shaye’s head whipped around in panic, “What?” _Surely she doesn’t know who I am!_

Cyréne shrugged, “I don’t judge people, until they give me reason to, and I’d hate to kill someone who isn’t out to kill us.”

Shaye looked closer. “No one I know, but . . . wait, what’s chasing it.”

Cyréne closed one eye and gazed down her field sight.

“It looks like . . . Vigilants. Great . . . now I don’t know who to shoot.”

Shaye grinned, “Not fond of Stendarr?”

“Very fond of him actually,” Cyréne said. “I just find it ironic that these prejudiced assholes go around ruthlessly destroying life while claiming to serve the god of mercy.” She lowered her bow.

 _Well, fuck!_ Shaye thought. _I like her._

“Any ideas?” Cyréne queried. “I’d say we have about 60 seconds. And arrows are only going to slow it down.”

“Well, Janus hasn’t attacked it. That’s a good sign, right?”

“I’m not sure. Bjorlam, just so you know the small wolves are dead, but there’s a huge werewolf coming up behind us, being followed by Vigilants of Stendarr who are- FUCK!” Cyréne cursed as an arrow flew by her head, “Who are shooting at us like idiots!”

“That makes up my mind,” Shaye said.

Bjorlam slapped the reins and they sped up considerably. Shaye and Cyréne both jolted forward and had to grab each other for support.

“Watch it, jackass!” Shaye said over her shoulder.

“Wolf!” Cyréne yelled.

It looked up at her.

“Well, there’s a human in there,” she muttered. “Janus, back home you go!”

She gathered her energy and cast. A fire rune appeared just behind the werewolf and a frost Atronach appeared further down the road startling the Vigilants’ horses as Janus disappeared.

Suddenly, the werewolf lunged for the carriage. Shaye and Cyréne dove to opposite sides to avoid it. Both of them drew daggers as it turned to face them. Cyréne brought sparks to one hand.

“We brought daggers to a werewolf fight,” Shaye whispered.

“Yeah,” Cyréne whispered back, “Fuck City, population us. Nice knowing you.”

“At least we’ll die drunk,” Shaye said, with a sudden giggle.

The wolf snarled making both of them flinch and then collapsed.

“Did you kill it?” Bjorlam yelled frantically.

“Uh, it’s down,” Shaye said, “but keep moving, we’ve still got company.”


	13. Seeking Delicious Male with Strong Desire to Show Appreciation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sex is the last refuge of the miserable." - Quentin Crisp

Cyréne looked at the heap of wolf in the wagon and then at Shaye, sizing her up.

“I’m going to try to save it” she said. “I could use your help if you’d like to come and your silence if you wouldn’t.”

Shaye nodded, “I’ll come with you, but where?”

“Up ahead, there’s an outcropping of rock where the road turns. It’s about 200 yards from the fort up ahead. It’s been abandoned, and it’s probably been taken over by bandits or something, but there’s an entrance to the prison near the wall outside the fort. If we can hide long enough for the Vigilants to pass, we can get into the prison.”

“Breaking into a prison . . . doesn’t sound that great,” Shaye said.

“I know,” Cyrene agreed, “but the only other option is up an embankment to the left and we’d never get up there trying to take it with us. Plus it’s only an overlook, so it’s not very sheltered. And the prison has doors that can be barred from the inside, so once we get in and clear the place we can secure it somewhat.”

“We’ll never be able to carry this thing,” Shaye whispered.

“Maybe I can heal it just enough so that it can help us . . . I don’t know. And I don’t know how it will react when it wakes up, but we can always put it in a cell until we find out.”

“Alright, how are we going to do this?”

“Bjorlam,” Cyréne said “Speed up until you get to the outcropping up ahead on the right and then slow down, enough for us to get off.”

“What? You’ll freeze to death out here!”

“Just do it, and then get to Winterhold as fast as you can. Don’t say anything about this – just drop my stuff at the college, okay?”

“The Companions will have my hide!” he said.

“ _NO_ , they won’t, because you’re going to keep your mouth shut or I’ll skin it for you right now!”

Bjorlam slapped the reins again and they sped forward. Cyréne pulled a tan colored bottle out of her bag and drank half.

“Strength potion” she said, handing it to Shaye.

Shaye downed it and strapped her travel bag around her shoulders. Cyréne dug whatever she could fit in her satchel out of her bags and secured it around her. They each grabbed one of the wolf’s arms and got ready to jump.

“Okay,” Cyréne said. “One, Two, THREE!”

They both pulled as hard as they could and the three of them tumbled to the ground behind the rocks. Cyréne and Shaye scrambled to their feet and pulled the wolf further back, covering their tracks as they went. Cyréne held up her hand and got ready to cast as the sound of horses approached.

“Invisibility,” she mouthed.

She cast the spell and they waited in silence as the riders passed. They waited until the riders had completely passed the fort and then hugged the rocks as they struggled with the wolf, one of them under each of its arms.

“We are stupid,” Shaye said suddenly. “What are we doing?”

“I’m starting to wonder,” Cyréne panted. “But I’m also thinking maybe we shouldn’t revive it just yet.”

They made it to the trap door and peered down into the dim corridor.

“I guess I need to check it out first,” Cyréne said. “We can drop the wolf in, but there’s no way we’ll be able to lift him out.”

Suddenly, the sound of approaching horses hit their ears.

Shaye and Cyréne looked at each other and then heaved the wolf through the trap door. It fell to the floor in a heap.

Cyréne stifled a giggle. “I don’t know why that was hilarious to me.”

“Because you’re buzzed,” a grinning Shaye accused, poking a finger at her chest.

They climbed in, and, leaving the wolf alone for a moment, snuck through the dim corridors.

Cyréne pointed up the stairs, “Those doors lead to the courtyard and the ones straight ahead lead to the holding cells.”

They crept up the stairs, opened the prison doors slowly and looked around. Cyréne pointed to a woman dressed in black sitting at a table across the room. She heard the creaking of a skeleton and jerked her head to the right.

“Necromancer,” Shaye whispered.  She pulled a bottle of poison out of her bag and dipped three arrows, laying two of them on the ground and nocking the third.

Cyréne didn’t say anything; she just aimed at the skeleton and fired. It went down immediately. Shaye’s first arrow hit home and the woman in black slumped to the floor. She knocked another one just in case, and fired as another skeleton came running up the stairs. They cleared the room and headed back toward where they left the wolf. They barred the doors to the courtyard and then headed back through the corridors.

“Oh shit!” Shaye squeaked. “Where did it go?”

A snarl sounded from behind them – _close,_ behind them. Cyréne spun and sent a jolt of sparks through the wolf’s body. It collapsed onto the floor.

“It may be pissed at me for that later,” she said.

“Let’s get it into a cell.”

They dragged the limp wolf down the stairs. Cyréne gathered extra hay from the surrounding cells and added it to the pile in the first one, before spreading a bedroll over it. With a last monumental effort they pulled the beast onto the bedroll and flopped down on the floor, breathing heavily.

“Ugh! Wet dog smell,” Shaye said with a grimace.

“Let’s just hope it’s housetrained.” Cyrene said dryly. “I’ll start checking it over, if you want to check around for supplies – I saw some barrels upstairs, and there’s a fire pit by the door.”

Shaye nodded and got up to leave. “Are you sure I should leave you alone with that thing?” she said, turning back.

Cyréne grinned and brought sparks to her fingers, “Zap-zap, baby!”

Shaye headed up the stairs and Cyréne began nervously checking the wolf for injuries. She ran her hands over it gently. They came back wet with blood when she touched its right flank. Something shiny was stuck to her fingertip.

“Silver, of course,” she muttered. “Ok, wolf, I’m trying to help you, so please don’t maul me.”

“I won’t!” It growled. “Keep your sparks to yourself!”

Cyréne jumped and pressed her hand to her heart. “Holy shit! You scared the Oblivion out of me!”

After a moment, her racing pulse slowed down and she spoke again. “Can I work on you while you’re . . . like this, or do you want to change . . . it, uh . . . would certainly help with the . . . um fur, if you did.”

It growled softly.

“I’ll go get a blanket. I’ll be right back.” She closed the cell door behind her and sped up the stairs.

“What’s wrong?” Shaye said.

Cyréne grinned. “Our friend is awake and apparently was for the whole trip down the stairs. It told me to keep the sparks to myself.”

“Nice,” Shaye said, “so, male or female?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Let’s hope for delicious male with a strong desire to show gratitude,” Shaye whispered.

“I can hear you!” came a loud snarl.

Shaye clapped a hand over her mouth, and Cyréne closed her eyes and swallowed back a fit of giggles before heading down the stairs with the blanket and her satchel. She approached the cell carefully and unlocked the door. The wolf was lying on its side, facing away from her.

“Here,” she said, in what she hoped was a soothing voice. “Let me put this over you and then you can change, okay?”

The wolf didn’t respond. Cyréne covered it with the blanket and stepped away, turning her back.

“It’s not a good idea to turn your back on a wild animal,” said a decidedly masculine voice from behind her.

“May I turn around?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She turned slowly and kept her eyes on the floor as she approached. She knelt beside him and pulled her bag to her.

“You’re not going to look at me?”

“If you want me to, I will – but I understand if you’d rather me not see your face.”

“I think we’re beyond that,” he said dryly, before wincing in pain.

Cyréne’s eyes flew to his face, “Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere” he said turning to look at her

They regarded each other for a moment. His dark brown hair fell to his chin and was covered with dirt, as was his un-kept beard. Chocolate brown eyes stared back at her. She couldn’t tell if he was tan or dirty.

“How long have you been out there?” she asked.

“That bad, huh?”

She nodded. “It’s pretty bad. We need to get you cleaned up, before I check your wounds – but we also need to get that silver out of you.”

Shaye appeared with a bucket of warm water and some linen strips.

“Okay, this isn’t hot, but it should do . . . Oh, hello. I’m Sha-uh, Tina.”

“Hello Sha-uh-tina,” he said with his eyes narrowed.

Shaye smirked at him. “Neither appreciative, nor delicious – isn’t that just our luck.”

She plopped the bucket of water down and headed back upstairs.

Cyréne smiled to herself and dipped a piece of linen in the water. “Where should I start?”

“How about with your name?”

“Oh-ho! Flirting are we? You must be feeling better than I thought. My name is Cyréne. Now, which injury should I start tending first?”

“You tell me,” he said, lying back on the bedroll. They all feel equally hellish at the moment. “And I am house trained.”

“Good to know. I don’t want to have to let you out every few hours.”

He made a small sound that sounded somewhat like a chuckle. “My name is Brand.”

“Alright, Brand, where does it hurt the most?”

“My right side”

“Roll over so I can see.”

He rolled over carefully and she folded the blanket down to his waist. A huge gash covered his side from his ribcage to below the blanket. Smaller slashes radiated out from the middle and silver fragments were embedded in all of them.

“My gods!” she gasped, “What did they do to you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Mentally kicking herself for her outburst, Cyrene touched one of the silver shards with the tip of her finger. It stuck. She brushed it off of her finger and tried another piece.

“Well, the smaller pieces are coming out easily. Let me know if the pain gets too bad for you.”

“Trust me,” he groaned, “anything you do will be a relief after . . . everything.”

She worked for an hour getting the tiny pieces out, during which he fell asleep. Once she was sure she had them all, she rewet the piece of linen and touched it to the wound.

Brand startled awake and grabbed her around the neck with a snarl. Cyréne didn’t struggle, although her eyes widened. He stared at her for a moment and then pulled his hand away. “I’m . . . I’m s-“

“It’s fine,” she interrupted, “you’ve obviously been through a lot. Next time I’ll zap you, though.”

Another hour passed and the wound was finally clean and closed.

“It’s going to scar, I’m afraid,” Cyrene commented. “You have some broken ribs on this side, and no telling what else. I’ll let you recover for a while and then we can start again”

Shaye came down the stairs just then, balancing three bowls of food.

“Dinner is served, compliments of whoever left this stuff here. Holy shit! What the hell happened to you?” She said, looking at the jagged red scars along Brand’s exposed side.

He glared at her and pulled the blanket up.

“Hostile,” she muttered.

“Thanks,” Cyréne said, as Shaye handed her a bowl. “This is Brand.”

Brand wolfed his food down and Shaye handed him her bowl. “I ate upstairs, and there’s more if you want it.”

“You should probably go easy, after that bowl,” Cyréne cautioned. “I don’t want you to get sick on top of everything else.”

He grunted and handed both bowls to Shaye. She rolled her eyes.

“I’m so glad we did this, Cyréne. It’s just loads of fun.”

“Sorry,” Cyréne said. “My spur of the moment ideas aren’t always the best.”

“Drunken logic,” Shaye muttered. “Just do your thing and let’s get out of here as soon as possible. This place gives me the creeps.”

Shaye took her bowl from her and Cyréne turned back to Brand. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Um, okay . . . how about you keep the valuables covered while I check you as thoroughly as possible, without us getting too well acquainted.”

He adjusted the blanket, so that she could check him over, uncomfortable at being seen in his filthy state. Cyréne reset his broken ankle, wondering how he’d managed to run on it, and then healed a gash on his thigh, pretending not to notice the rise in the blanket when she did. Brand gritted his teeth and tried to think about something besides the tingling going on right below his groin. She reset the broken ribs and began pressing gently on his stomach, searching for tenderness. Finding none she handed him a health potion and cast a final powerful spell that whooshed around him.

“I’m going to see if I can find some clothes for you. I’ll leave the water bucket.”

Cyréne left him lying there and trudged up the stairs.

“I am so tired,” she said to Shaye.

“No kidding, you’ve been at it for hours down there, and not in the fun way. And I don’t care if you can hear me in-grate!” she said a little louder.

Cyréne grinned, “Just jump him already. Here, take him these, will you?” She handed Shaye a shirt, pants and boots from a nearby chest.

“Yeah, yeah,”

Shaye walked silently down the stairs and stopped outside Brand’s cell. He’d dropped the blanket and was scrubbing himself clean. She leaned on the door and watched.

“Nice ass,” she said, after a while. “Wanna turn around and give me the full view?”

Brand turned around and looked at her without hesitation or amusement. “Lady, you need to get laid, badly.”

She smirked down at his manhood, “Looks like you could help me with that, no problem.”

“Can I just have the clothes, please?”

“Maybe,” Shaye grinned menacingly. “How about you earn them?”

“How about you just give them to me?”

“Or what, going to turn me over your knee?”

“CYRÉNE!” he called

“What?”

“Oh, here!” Shaye said, shoving the clothes at him. “Wimp!”

She stomped up the stairs and stuck her tongue out at Cyréne, who was trying not to laugh.

“You’ll get him next time,” Cyréne grinned. 


	14. I Didn't Cry, I Stabbed Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sex is the last refuge of the miserable." - Quentin Crisp

 

Brand sighed heavily realizing he'd run out of water and was still covered in grime. He was about to wrap the blanket around himself and go in search of more when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He crossed his arms and waited for Shaye to make another appearance.

"Brand?" Cyréne called. "I'm on the way down."

He lunged for the blanket, wincing as the injury on his side pulled. "Alright, I'm covered."

She appeared at the door lugging a heavy bucket of steaming water. She had, what appeared to be towels, under one arm and a small bag was tucked inside them. He stepped toward her and took the bucket.

"Thank you," she breathed. "All that healing wore me out. Are you still feeling okay?"

"Yes, just filthy."

She gave him a sympathetic look. "Well, that's what the extra water is for, and I found some other things that might be useful."

She handed him the small bag and set the towels on the bench at the back of the cell.

"There is soap in the bag too. It smells like honey – sorry about that – it's all I had with me."

"Why are you doing this for me?" he asked.

"Do I need a reason?" she asked, surprised.

"Most people do."

"Well," she said coming up to him. "I don't have one, except that you were in need. And you should thank Tina, she did as much as I did."

He nodded. "I will."

They looked at each other for a moment.

"Um, do you need . . . help with anything?" she asked hesitantly. "I don't mean to be forward but, you probably shouldn't be reaching and stretching too much."

"Don't you think that's a job for Tina?"

She blushed. "I can get her for you."

"Uh, no"

"Well . . . okay, I'll leave you to it then."

"It's not that I don't appreciate your offer," Brand said. "I just can't ask you to do something like that for me, you're obviously . . ."

"I'm obviously what?" Cyréne asked with her arms crossed.

"Not loose . . ."

Cyréne smiled. "Thank you, and no I'm not, but I don't mind helping you. I'm used to being around brothers, if you know what I mean."

He looked down at the floor, realizing he needed help, but not wanting to shame himself further.

"Tina!" Cyréne called. "Brand needs a bath, wanna help?"

Brand looked at her, startled.

"No!" Shaye called from upstairs. "Send him to me when he's clean."

Cyréne grinned, "Sounds like you're going to get lucky," she teased.

"That's not what I'd call it."

"Oh please," Cyréne said. "She's attractive and she wants you – a lot, apparently. Sounds like luck to me."

Brand looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. "Yeah . . ."

"Here," Cyréne said. "At least let me wash out your hair for you. You don't need to be stretching that injury on your side." She walked back to the bench and stood behind it motioning for him to sit down."

He obeyed, simply because he couldn't think of a way to refuse without being rude. Cyréne grabbed the tankard that was floating in the bucket and filled it with the hot water. "Okay, lean your head back."

When he did she soaked his hair and then reached inside the bag she brought down and retrieved a small bottle. "Well, you're definitely going to smell pretty," she said, pouring the scented soap into her hand."

"It's better than wet dog, I guess."

Brand fought the urge to flinch away when she touched him. He felt bile rise to his throat as unwelcome memories of the past few months played through his mind. If anything has seared itself into his consciousness it was that "touch" was not his friend. The healing spell had helped, and the bath was helping, but he still felt filthy, and used, and less than human. He swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut and his muscles tensed. Behind him, Cyrene's brow creased. She weighed her options, and wondered a bit about the ethics of manipulating his mind before silently sending a soothing, calming energy through her fingertips, slowly, so he wouldn't notice. A moment later his muscles began to relax and Brand had to stifle a groan of pleasure as Cyréne scrubbed his scalp with her nails. She smiled to herself at the relaxed expression on his face, despite the small nagging guilt in the back of her mind, and kept scrubbing. After a while she directed some of that calming energy back at herself, and guilt assuaged, told him to lean back again and rinsed his hair out and dried it quickly with a towel. She ran her fingers through it gently, releasing the tangles, and then reached over his shoulder and handed him a razor.

"I don't think that beard can be salvaged."

He sighed and started shaving.

"Here," Cyréne said after a minute. "Wrap this towel around your waist instead of that blanket, and I'll get some of this dirt off of your back."

She handed him the towel and he looked around to find her turned away from him, staring at the wall. He did as he'd been told and then sat back down on the bench. "Okay, you can turn around, now."

He went back to shaving, but closed his eyes for a moment as warm water splashed down his shoulders and back, followed by a soapy cloth. Cyréne was tired, and under her own spell of distorted calm, and her mind was wandering. She watched the dirt disappear from his shoulders and back, not missing the flex of his muscles under her touch. She found herself eyes closing and was only jerked back to consciousness by Brand's hands on her wrists.

"Hmm?" she murmured.

"I can take it from here, unless you'd like to keep going, which I wouldn't advise."

"What?" she said sleepily. She opened her eyes halfway to find herself leaning against his back with her arms over his shoulders, absentmindedly running the soapy cloth over his abs. she jumped back, dropping the cloth in his lap. "Oh, Brand – I'm so sorry. I'm just tired, I didn't mean to—"

He chuckled and glanced over his shoulder. "Well, I don't even have that defense; it just felt good."

Her guilt kicked into full gear and she abruptly cut off the tiny bit of energy she realized was still seeping from her fingers.  _No, it didn't "just" feel good._

She sighed, "Am I forgiven then?"

He turned to look at her and her eyes widened.

"Well . . . wow! That's quite a change. Tina might change her tune about you not being delicious." She gave him a sleepy smile.

"What's your deal?" he asked, suddenly wary.

"Huh?"

"What's your deal? No one is this nice, no one is this kind, and no one helps werewolves. So, what is your angle here?"

"I . . . don't have an angle. Or, I don't understand what you mean. "

He stood and approached her, and Cyréne realized that he towered over her.

"I'm sorry if I've done something to offend you," she said in confusion.

His eyes narrowed. "And now you're apologizing. Do you just have to feel needed or something? What are you getting out of this?"

Cyréne closed her eyes for a moment and then walked away without a word.

"Is he clean yet," Shaye asked as Cyrene walked by.

"More or less," Cyréne said. "Have at it."

Shaye grinned and headed down the stairs.

* * *

Cyréne sat down on the floor and wedged herself into a corner between the wall and a bookshelf. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, resting her head on her knees.

 _Why do I try to help people? I always screw it up – always. And illusion magic? What was I thinking? I take it too far, or I don't pay attention. Maybe he's right – maybe I'm just doing all of this for myself. Maybe I'm a sick, twisted person inside. Or maybe . . . I just want other people to find a little comfort and happiness, just because I can't. Or maybe . . . I'm just tired of being alone . . . but, am I willing to bend someone's feelings? Gods! Who am I? I don't even know anymore._ She sighed and closed her eyes, falling into a restless sleep.

Shaye crept down the stairs, every bit the assassin she was, and peeked around the corner. Brand had taken up where Cyréne left off and was indeed, almost clean. He saved the best part for last, in her opinion, and she watched him stroke himself with a soapy hand before creeping up behind him. She reached around and took over mid-stroke.

"Stop it!" he growled trying to pull away.

Her grip tightened. "I don't think you want me to," she said confidently.

"What the hell have I fallen into?" he asked.

Shaye grinned, "You my friend are caught between a very, very good girl and a very, very bad one. She's done her part, now let me do mine. Most men dream of situations like this."

"I dream of killing things," he said sharply.

"What a coincidence," Shaye purred, still stroking him. "Me too."

Brand closed his eyes. "If I let you do this, will you stop everything else?"

"If you still want me to when I'm done, then yes, but you know it's going to feel good."

That infuriated him and he slapped her hand away. "Stop it! I'm not in the mood for whatever game you're playing."

Shaye shrugged. "You will be eventually – just hope I'm still feeling generous."

"I've no doubt you're always feeling generous," he said, scowling.

Shaye's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Life is short, I believe in living it to the fullest." Her eyes narrowed suddenly, "And by the way, you're probably the most ungrateful asshole on the planet. We risked our lives for you, and Cyréne has just about exhausted herself trying to take care of you. I heard what you said to her, and she didn't even respond to you, so I'll do it for her. Fuck! You! You bastard – we should have tossed you out of the back of that carriage and let those damn zealots have you." Shaye pivoted to stride up the stairs, but then turned back. Staring into his eyes, she dumped a cupful of clean water over the last soapy part of him and then dipped down, wrapped her lips around it and gave him one long, luxurious stroke with her mouth before glaring at him and leaving him panting and staring after her as she stomped up the stairs."  _You're gonna be okay, Wolf, you just don't realize it yet. I promise._

"Thanks for what you said," Cyréne said as Shaye passed her.

"You need to learn to stick up for yourself," Shaye scolded. "And as for whatever the man trouble is, take my advice; there are just some of them out there who aren't worth it. Gather up all the tears you've cried, and drown him in them."

Cyréne looked up at her, expressionless, "I didn't cry. I stabbed him."

Shaye's eyes widened and a grin split her face. "Now you," she said, "are my kind of girl."

Cyréne shrugged. "He really, really, pissed me off."

"Remind me not to get on your bad side," Brand said, walking into the room. He glanced over at Shaye, "All you have is a bad side."

"Damn right," she said proudly.

Cyréne ignored him and tried to concentrate on anything but reality. She held up her hand and searched her mind, until she found Janus. He appeared before her and she beckoned to him. She shoved her satchel under her head and curled up on the floor with her arms around him.

Brand looked at Shaye, who just shrugged and crawled into her bedroll.

"You ruined her stuff with your dirt and wet dog smell. You're on your own about finding somewhere to sleep."

* * *

 _I should probably just leave,_ he thought, later. He looked around at the two sleeping women and rolled his eyes as his conscience kicked in. They had risked their lives to save him, and more.  _I guess I'm stuck with them, until I can drop them off wherever they belong._ The thought of what he would do next, or where he would go sent a shot of paralyzing fear through him and he took a few deep breaths to calm himself.  _Just get through tonight._

He checked all the doors to make sure they were secure before stoking the fire and settling down in a chair for the night. He found himself amazed at the turn his day had taken. He'd gone from being a tortured prisoner to having two more-than-attractive women taking care of him in less than 24 hours, and all he'd done was bitch and moan about it. Cyréne and Shaye seemed to be polar opposites, but they complimented each other – he could definitely do worse as far as the company, and the view. He looked from one of them to the other, contemplating. Shaye, he didn't trust because she made it obvious that he shouldn't - and that, that was something he was comfortable with. Cyréne on the other hand . . . she seemed good, and sweet, and trustworthy . . . which, in his experience meant she was most definitely  _not_  all of those things - or that she had a hidden agenda.  _They're both dangerous,_  he decided.  _But, so am I._

He looked over at the huge blue wolf Cyréne had conjured and it raised its head and glared at him – aggressively. Cyréne hugged it tighter and said its name in her sleep, and it settled down again with its head by hers.  _Strange, that she's clinging so tightly to something that won't last._


	15. Just Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I saw you last night out on the edge of town. I wanna read your mind and know just what Ive got in this new thing I’ve found. So tell me what I see when I look in your eyes - Is that you baby or just a brilliant disguise?” –Bruce Springsteen

Vilkas sat on the roof of Jorrvaskr staring off into the darkness beyond the city walls. He was restless and the wolf was pacing in annoyance.

He’d started training Ria and the frustration was almost too much for him in his already irritated state. She was willing enough, but she’d rather have him show her things over and over again than try anything on her own. His mind wandered to his first day training Cyréne and a small smile played across his lips as he stared down into the training yard.

He hadn’t let it show, but he was pleased with how well she did and impressed when she picked things up quickly and kept trying until she got it right. His brow furrowed. He’d spent today encouraging a disheartened Ria, but he couldn’t remember ever offering Cyréne any praise.

The image of Cyréne’s laughing face faded away from him suddenly. Instead he saw her holding her cheek with shock and fear in her eyes . . . and shame. His head dropped into his hands. He’d called her a whore. He hit her. If any other man had dared raise a hand to her or insult her like that, he would have damn near killed them. As soon as it happened he’d known he was too far gone. It felt like the wolf was going to tear a hole in his chest.

He heard the creak of boards as someone joined him on the roof. Farkas sat down beside him and handed him a bottle of mead. They drank in silence for a while.

“Talk to me,” Farkas said finally.

Vilkas shook his head. “What’s wrong with me?”

Farkas shrugged. “You think too much after you do things, and not enough before.”

“I hit her.”

Farkas looked over at him in surprise. “Why? I’ve seen you with her; you’ve never come close to losing your temper.”

“She told me she was going to keep sleeping with him.”

“That doesn’t sound like something Cyréne would say to anyone, ever. Why did she say that to you?”

Vilkas sighed and told his brother the whole story. He looked over to see Farkas glaring at him in what he knew was anger and disappointment.

“She told you that she loved you?”

“Yes.”

“And you accused her of being with me . . .”

“Well, I didn’t really think that—“

“I should push you off the roof,” Farkas grunted.

“Probably,” Vilkas agreed.

Farkas looked off into the darkness for a moment. Vilkas could feel him thinking.

After a moment Farkas looked down at his mead bottle and spoke. “Did you enjoy hurting her? Did it feel . . . good?”

Vilkas sucked in a breath. “No it didn’t feel good – why would you ask me that?”

“Why didn’t you just stop, then?”

Vilkas looked over at him. “What?”

Farkas returned his gaze. “If you didn’t like the way it felt, why didn’t you just stop?”

“Just . . . stop?”

“Yes, Vilkas,” Farkas said in frustration. “Just stop. Stop talking, stop thinking, stop lying, stop fucking women you don’t want . . .”

Vilkas looked startled, as though the idea had never occurred to him. “I . . .”

“What are you so afraid of?”

Vilkas started to snap a reply at him, but Farkas stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “I’m telling you, as your brother, that you need to fix this.”

“And, if I can’t?”

“Then you aren’t trying hard enough.”

Farkas put an arm over his brother’s shoulders.

“I don’t even know where to start . . .”

“That’s an easy one,” Farkas said, getting up. “You start by deciding what she’s worth to you.”

“What she’s worth to me?”

“Yeah, is she worth more than your pride?”

Vilkas watched in stunned silence as his brother climbed down from the roof. Sometimes he thought his brother knew him better than he knew himself. Only Farkas could simplify something so much and have it make perfect sense. Vilkas wondered what it was like to not have to work to be honest with yourself.

“Don’t stay out here all night,” Farkas called.

Vilkas heard the doors on the porch open and shut. He looked up at the stars. The warrior caught his eye and he remembered pointing it out to Cyréne on their way back to Jorrvaskr the night they stayed at the Mare.

His thoughts wandered farther into that night. She’d been her playful sweet self through all of it. _But, was that even her?_ She acted completely oblivious to the meaning of Yvette’s words until she knew he was ready to talk about it. _But how did she know I was ready, when I didn’t even know?_

Until she’d had that nightmare in front of him, it never occurred to him that she had a care in the world beyond whatever the two of them were doing at the moment. _How could I have possibly missed that?_  He’d never asked her about her life, her history, her family. He realized now that she’d orchestrated it that way. The focus was always on him – his needs, his wants, his mood. She made his life easy and uncomplicated. Thinking back he started to see a pattern. She’d played him, and he ate it up. He just couldn’t figure out why . . .

When she woke from her nightmare he’d honestly not known how to react. He didn’t think about it – he just wanted to make it stop – so he held her. And then, on top of it all, she’d realized his arousal immediately and reacted to it, trying to give him what she thought he needed or wanted, even while she was hurting so much. It made him angry. _How could I possibly love her? I don’t even know who she is._ Did she think so little of him, as to believe he would have . . . he groaned.   _Who are you, Cyréne? What are you?_

His mind turned to their fight, and he realized why she seemed so out of character. He wasn’t being rational, he’d never completely lost it in front of her and she couldn’t figure out what he wanted from her. She’d tried everything to calm him down, and when nothing worked, she just reflected his emotions back at him. That final straw, when he’d pushed her over the edge was an emotion he recognized. It was fear – raw primal fear. It was the same fear that made cornered prey so vicious and an injured animal so dangerous.

He thought about Farkas’s advice. How could he decide what she was worth to him, when she wasn’t real? His Cyréne would have been worth everything to him, but she was just an illusion - _a shallow illusion_. That Cyréne would only ever be what he expected of her, and he wanted more. His heart wrenched when he thought about her with the Dragonborn. _Who are you for him, Cyréne? What do you give him? What does he expect?_

He sighed and tried to be fair. He pushed his emotions to the side and forgot about their fight for a moment. There was something about her that pulled him in, but she’d lied to him. He couldn’t think of anything she had to gain by it, other than a feeling of safety – temporarily. But now, it was impossible to separate the illusion from reality. Did she really make stupid jokes all the time or was that invented for him? Did she train with him because she wanted to learn the weapons or because she was trying to get close to him? Did she want him that night at the Mare or was she just doing what she thought she was supposed to?

He took a deep breath and made his decision. Yes, he loved the Cyréne he knew. Yes, she was worth swallowing his pride. Yes, if he believed she was who she pretended to be he would do anything to get her back. But he didn’t believe it, and he never would. So no matter what he felt, there was nothing for him to do. Except stop.

* * *

Cyréne’s dreams were a whirl of confusion. She was walking down a road, alone, but she didn’t know where she was supposed to be going – just that she had to walk. She tried to conjure Janus, but every time she cast she got something different. There was a wolf that lasted a few moments before exploding in a burst of flames, and then she’d get a dragon that shouted and drained her life forces before flying away. The next thing she cast was black and red nothingness that slammed over her face like a mask, after that she got a reflection of herself – she knew it was her, but she didn’t recognize the reflection. The process repeated over and over again until she tried to conjure something and nothing came. Every mile or two, the weather would change like the seasons, from spring to summer to fall to winter. Friends would appear by her side for a moment, but when she turned to them they were gone. Some of them took things from her and some of them left things with her, but no matter which they did her burden got heavier, until she struggled to walk. Often she could see them in the distance, but she could never leave the road. Soon the rain started, and she couldn’t find any shelter. Then everything just exploded in a burst of color and she found herself running through the woods. Earth, sky, wind and run were her only thoughts. Suddenly the trees faded away and she was standing on a cliff overlooking the sea. Someone called her name and she turned, but when she did there were suddenly three arrows sticking out of her chest. The pain was overwhelming. Healing magic appeared in her hands, but she couldn’t find the will to use it. She spread her arms and stepped backwards, before falling, falling, falling into the darkness of the sea. And as she fell, tears of relief flowed from her eyes and floated above her, gleaming like diamonds in the moonlit sky. The crashing of the waves grew closer and closer and she closed her eyes and smiled. Just before she could touch the waves she found herself back on the road, but this time she knew she was headed for the sea. She dropped everything and ran. A wolf appeared beside her and ran with her, faster and faster until they were just a blur. It watched as she plummeted over the cliff and she heard it howl long and low. It didn’t sound like sadness – just farewell. The sound mixed with the sweet melody of the waves as she tumbled into the sea and was no more.


	16. Thaw

Brand and Tina were sleeping soundly when Cyréne woke. The floor was cold and Janus was gone. The satchel under her head was serving more to make her neck stiff than cushion it. She was still tired, but the chill in the room drove her from her place in the corner and she crept closer to the fire pit. After building the fire up a bit, she held her hands over it and rubbed at her arms. She looked around for the cloak she’d been wearing. It was draped over Brand where he slept leaned back in a chair. She rolled her eyes and thought about grabbing it off of him and kicking his chair over. _Where did that come from?_   Instead, she sat down on the floor and tried not to shiver.

A tiny repetitive snapping sound pulled Brand from his much-needed sleep. He looked around for a moment trying to pinpoint its source. Then he looked down. Cyréne was huddled on the floor, not far from his chair and her teeth were chattering. She felt him staring at her and turned her head toward him.

“Sorry,” she whispered. She got up and moved away from the fire back into her corner and willed herself to sleep.

He closed his eyes and tried to fall back into sleep. After a few minutes he opened them again and chanced a look in her direction. She was shivering. _If she’s too stupid to come near the fire, then she can freeze for all I care._ A few minutes later he was crossing the room.

He looked down at her. Her eyes were closed and she was biting her bottom lip to keep her teeth from clicking together. He looked toward Shaye. She was snug in her bell roll and snoring lightly. He considered carrying Cyréne across the room and dropping her by the fire, but the threat of sparks jolting through him gave him pause.

He squatted down and bent over her instead. “Cyréne, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to sleep, Brand. What are you doing?”

“Watching you shiver. It’s keeping me awake.”

Cyréne bit back a rude remark and hugged her arms around herself. “I’m sorry. I guess I can go downstairs.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Seriously, what is wrong with you?”

She gave him a tired look. “Whatever you want to be wrong with me. I’m going downstairs.” She looped her satchel over her arm and sat there for a moment, too tired to move.

He stood and reached down to pull her to her feet. When she touched his hand she practically purred and immediately reached for his other hand. He looked at her in renewed interest and his eyebrow quirked up.

“You’re warm,” she said in explanation. 

“It’s the wolf blood.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, briskly.

Her eyes closed halfway and she inched forward toward the warmth he was radiating before stopping herself and glancing toward Shaye. She sighed and moved back before turning to head downstairs.

“What was that?”

“Um . . . nothing”

“Uh-huh. I could have sworn you were about to do something smart like getting closer to me so that you don’t freeze to death.”

Shaye had been listening with her back turned, and her eyes narrowed.

“No,” Cyréne countered, “I was about to do something without thinking, like getting too close to someone else’s man.”

Brand looked at her like she was stupid.

“One, I’m not someone else’s man. Two, It wouldn’t matter if I was because this is literally to keep you warm, and three, she’s not interested in anything but my c—” he cut himself off, cleared his throat and then continued. “She’s not interested in me that way.”

Cyréne hesitated for a moment, but shook her head. “Thanks anyway, but I like Tina a lot. She didn’t have to help me and I don’t want to do anything . . . questionable.”

Guilt had been chipping away at Shaye since their carriage ride. She wasn’t used to it, and now it was hammering her. Trusting people was bad – they always burned you in the end. She would have jumped Brand in Cyréne’s position, but here was Saint Cyréne freezing to death, so that someone she met hours ago wouldn’t get hurt. _What **is** her deal?_ She couldn’t help but feel a little zing of . . . something . . . at Cyréne’s loyalty, though.

She turned in her bedroll and let out a loud sigh. “Will you two shut up already? I’m trying to sleep.” She looked at Brand and pointed at Cyréne. “It’s your fault she’s cold. Fix it and stop being an ass.” She rolled back over with a huff and stifled a grin at the looks on their faces.

“Th . . . thank you, Tina,” Cyréne chattered out.

“Don’t mention it. Grope him for me, would ya?”

Brand opened his arms to her and she gratefully slipped into his warm embrace, huddling against him. 

“Put your arms around my neck,” he said lowly.

She didn’t think to refuse, and she felt like she’d died and gone to Sovngarde when the heat from his body pressed into hers. He lifted her from the floor slightly and carried her back over to the fire. He scooped her legs up and sat down on the floor with her cross ways in his lap, grabbing her cloak from where he left it on the chair on the way. She protested slightly when he removed her boots, but gave a little groan of pleasure when he started to briskly rub her feet. Her toes were like ice. He frowned, and held both of her slender feet between his hands for a moment. She buried her face in his neck, making him flinch slightly – the tip of her nose was freezing cold too. Once her feet were sufficiently warm he wrapped her cloak around them and started on her legs. His eyebrows rose slightly when he noticed that they were completely smooth – that must be a magic trick. His mind wondered what else was completely smooth, but he squelched that thought quickly.

Cyréne thought she should protest when his hands worked their way under her dress from her ankles to her knees to her thighs, but she didn’t care – he was warm and he was driving the cold away. He wasn’t touching her in a threatening way and she relaxed against him. He was pleased with himself when she smiled into his chest and made soft contented sounds. It felt good to make her feel better. He remembered his harsh words to her and gave himself a mental kick. _This is how it feels to help someone. No wonder she does it._ When the chill was gone from her legs he slipped her boots back onto her feet and stretched out on the floor. She moved to lie beside him but he pushed her legs down and held her on top of him.

“Stretch out on me” he said in a soft voice. “You’ll stay warmer that way than if you curl up.”

“Mmkay,” was all she managed before closing her eyes.

Brand pulled the cloak over them and wrapped his arms around her. Her hair spilled over his shoulder and he smiled in contentment. After weeks of torture and cruelty at the hands of an especially fanatic offshoot of the Vigilants he thought he’d never let another person touch him again. He just wanted to be alone, to lick his wounds and recover. When he heard her call to him on the road and then saw her and Tina - if that was her real name, which he doubted - put down their weapons, all his brain could think was _safety._ Of course, they’d picked them right back up again when he leapt into the carriage, but he couldn’t really blame them for that. And then she’d shocked the shit out of him when he snuck up behind them, but again, understandable.

When they dragged him into the prison cell, he just about gave up hope of ever being free. He didn’t want her to touch him, but he didn’t want to be hurt anymore either. Her gentle touch took him by surprise and he was sure he was dreaming. Tina’s completely vulgar advance had turned his stomach – not because of her, but because of everything he’d been through. Under different circumstances he’d have welcomed her. It was just one more thing that had been taken from him. But Cyrene had made him feel human again. _Cyréne, what a perfect name for her,_ he thought. _Calm and peace – she’s brought it to me. The panic has stilled and the fear has been quieted. I feel safe, and I can’t believe she did it so quickly. She must belong to someone, she has to – who could give this up?_

Several hours later Shaye woke with a yawn, and sat up to stretch. She blinked and looked around. Brand was stretched out on his back on the floor near the fire using Cyréne’s satchel as a pillow. Cyréne was lying on her stomach on top of him with her head resting on his chest and her arms curled underneath her. She was wrapped in her cloak and Brand’s arms were wrapped around her. They were both sound asleep. Shaye realized that she would have been furious if she woke up to find them like that without overhearing their conversation. It unnerved her slightly that Cyréne anticipated her emotions.

She wiggled her toes in her bed roll. She’d been a good person once, maybe not good like Cyréne, but she tried not to hurt people. Now, she murdered people for a living. Sometimes she did it just because she could and they deserved it. She smiled and stretched her arms over her head. When she left Cyrodiil she’d been looking for the road to redemption, but she realized quickly she wouldn’t find it. Now, she was on the road to revenge, and it was a much better place to be. Helping this wolf had been an interesting diversion, but she was ready for him to go back to wherever he came from so that Cyréne would relax again and she could do her job.

Shaye got up silently and grabbed her weapons. She made a hasty exit, intent on having some peace and quiet before she had to deal with anyone. With any luck she’d spy someone in need of an arrow through their neck. She smiled that chilling smile and started up the ladder to the trapdoor.

 

 

Cyréne stirred from sleep before Brand did. She hated to get up in the mornings, especially the frigid, Skyrim mornings. She shifted slightly and tried to figure out what she was lying on. It was warm, but it was also hard and oddly shaped. It was broad where her head was resting and it narrowed below her hips and then her legs seemed to be resting in some sort of long indention. It was also moving up and down slightly. Her brain couldn’t made sense of it. She stretched a little and then moved against it trying to get more comfortable. Brand came half awake with an aroused growl and tried to remember where he was. He recognized the smell and feel of a woman on top of him and decided he must be dreaming. He ran his hands over her anyway and growled again in approval. Her slow movements were doing things to him and he grasped her hips and moved her against him harder. When his hands came around to cup her behind, he decided it was a very good dream indeed and gave it a firm squeeze. That elicited a gasp from his dream woman and she went rigid in his arms. He frowned in his sleep and moved her against him again.

“Brand” she said softly

He groaned in response and went back to kneading her rear.

“Brand!” This time is name came out more as a hiss than anything else.

“Whaaaat?” he whined.

His dream woman giggled.  “Stop squeezing my ass.” She didn’t sound angry, so he didn’t stop.

“No,” he said sleepily. “I like it.” He gave it a hard squeeze and muttered, “it’s perfect.”

She giggled again. “Not that it doesn’t feel good, but—“

“Does feel good . . .”

“Brand, love, don’t make me shock you again.”

He froze and opened his eyes. Cyréne was grinning down at him. “Good morning.”

He stared at her for a moment, surprised she wasn’t offended and furious. He finally managed a chuckle and a smile of his own. “A very good morning.”

“Brand, love.”

“Yes?”

“Hands.”

He gave her a confused look before realizing he still had a firm grasp on her rear. He let go immediately and gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

She smiled and laid her head on his chest for a moment. “It was a pleasant way to wake up, no apology needed.”

He rubbed her back affectionately. “I could’ve done with a few more minutes of it.”

He felt her smile against his chest before she moved to get up.  She reached down to give him a hand and he smirked at her.

“Give me a few minutes.”

She closed her eyes and fought back a grin. “No problem.”


	17. Truth

“I wonder where Tina’s gotten off to,” Cyréne said a few minutes later.

Brand shrugged, “I’m sure she’s fine.”

“You could be a little more concerned. She was a big part of this.”

“I know. She just rubs me the wrong way.”

Cyréne bit her lip to keep from grinning.

“We should see what kind of weapons and armor we can scrounge from around here. All Tina and I have are bows and daggers, and it’s a long walk to Winterhold. I don’t know why I thought it’d be a good idea to travel in a dress instead of armor.”

Brand gave her a quizzical look. “What is it that you do exactly? I assumed you were a mage, but I don’t know any that travel in armor.”

“You first,” she said.

“Well,” he hesitated. “I _was_ a mercenary, until-“

“You took an arrow to the knee?” she joked.

“No, until I was turned into a werewolf.”

“Oh. When was that?”

“Six months ago.”

Cyréne’s eyebrows rose, “And, you’re in control of it? That’s amazing. Do you have a pack?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You sure do know a lot about this. What aren’t you telling me?”

“I have a friend like you,” she said simply.

“Yes, I’m in control of it. At least, I haven’t killed anyone, if that’s what you mean. No, I don’t have a pack and no, I don’t know what I’m going to do next.”

Her brow furrowed. “Who did you get to change you if you don’t have a pack?”

He gave her a hard look. “I didn’t _get_ anyone to change me. I wasn’t given a choice.”

Cyréne stopped digging through the chest she’d been poking around in and looked up at him. “What?”

“I said I wasn’t given a choice, it was forced on me.”

Cyréne’s voice changed from her normal sweet tone to one as hard as steel, “By who?”

“By the damn Vigilants – or an offshoot of them – some radical group of werewolf hunters”

“The Silver Hand,” she said. Her voice was as cold as ice. “Brand, in case you haven’t figured it out by now, you can trust me. I need you to tell me exactly what happened to you and don’t leave anything out. This is very, very important.”

The urgency and authority in her voice, along with her barely concealed fury sent a pang of fear down his spine. He wanted to trust her, he did, but she’d just transformed before him and it made him nervous. He swallowed and didn’t say anything.

She took a breath and closed her eyes to steady herself before walking over to him and pushing him gently down into a chair. She looked him in the eyes and reached out to touch his shoulder. Her touch was gentle and reassuring and he felt himself relax a little.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you, Brand. I truly am. I wish I could have been there to kill every one of the bastards that hurt you. They are cowards, and they have no code of honor. All they know is cruelty and hatred, and they deserve to be punished. I can’t go back and stop what happened, but with your help I may be able to prevent it from happening to others. Please trust me, Brand, please.” She drew back and looked him in the eyes again. “What can I do to reassure you? Tell me, and I’ll do it.”

He looked up at the ceiling, “Cyréne . . . it’s not that easy.”

“You trusted me a few minutes ago. What changed?”

“You did.”

“No, I didn’t. I’m just multifaceted.”

She put her hands on the table behind her and pushed herself up to sit on it. She scooted back and folded her legs under her, placing her hands in her lap in an effort to be as non-threatening as possible. “Now, ask me anything.”

“Who are you?”

Cyréne shot him a broken smile. “Honestly Brand, Im just a runaway from Cyrodill that had to grow up way too fast. I came here to escape an arranged marriage, and found out quickly that the world isn’t a friendly place.”

“I hear you,” Brand said with a nod, “but, I’m going to need more than that.”

“I’m the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold. I earned that title through blood, sweat and tears, not just academic magic. I am Thane of Eastmarch, Winterhold and The Reach. I hold the rank of Legate in the Imperial Legion and was at the side of General Tullius when Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak met his death. I am also a high ranking member of the Companions and the Harbinger considers me one of his most trusted and skilled warriors. I am a familiar of werewolves and an enemy of prejudice, unwarranted violence, and the suffering of the innocent. I’ve killed a lot of men and women in battle, but I’ve never taken a life unjustly or through deceit. Once I consider you a friend I will stand by you through anything, and defend you with my life. It takes a lot for someone to become my true enemy, but when they achieve that status, my vengeance is swift and brutal. If anyone tries to hurt the ones I love, I _will_ kill them, and I will not regret it.”

Brand’s mouth fell open slightly. He gave his head a shake. “Anything else?”

“I hate the cold and the snow. I’m afraid of Skeevers. I have a full set of double-enchanted daedric armor and weapons that I never get to use because I’m afraid it will intimidate my shield-siblings. I love horses, sweet rolls, firebrand wine and the way you woke me up this morning. If Tina hadn’t expressed interest in you, I wouldn’t have stopped at your abs yesterday – I would have given you the best bath of your life, and by the time I was finished with you, you would have needed another one.”

Brand was on his feet in an instant stalking toward her.

Cyrene realized her mistake immediately and backpedaled. “I said if, Brand, if.”

He loomed over her, pressing against the table. “Tell me you don’t want me, then.”

“I’m not a liar, of course I would want you – you’re extremely attractive, but I’m not going to betray a friend for it. I just gave you a whole speech about that.”

He jerked her lower body off the edge of the table with a growl.

“You feel that?” he snarled. “That’s the second time in an hour you’ve done that to me with no plans to follow through. I would never force myself on you, but I don’t have unlimited power over the beast. Don’t do it again!”

Cyrene’s eyes widened. “I won’t, I promise.”

“Good!” he growled, and stalked back over to his chair.

Cyréne swallowed the wave of embarrassment that was threatening to drown her, and continued. “Now, will you tell me what happened?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s hear it.”

“I’d rather tell you when we’re alone.”

“We are alone.”

“No, we aren’t, Tina’s been hiding over there in the corridor for the last minute and a half.”

Cyréne looked over towards the shadows and Shaye walked out with a shrug. “Hey, I’m just cautious. No need to miss the good stuff that people say when they think no one is listening.”

“You smell like death,” Brand stated. “What have you been doing out there?”

Shaye held up a couple of rabbits, “Getting breakfast.”

“Don’t pull that shit with me. Who did you kill?”

Shaye looked to Cyréne for support, but all she got was a raised eyebrow. Finally Cyrene spoke, “I’m sure you had a good reason for whoever they were, but I would like to hear it.”

“What?” Shaye squeaked.

“You left with a full quiver. You have two rabbits there, and only six arrows left, and you’re a very good shot.” _Oh my gods, I sound just like Vilkas._

Shaye sighed in defeat. “There were some assholes out there snooping around. They looked like they were up to no good.”

Cyréne widened her eyes and tilted one ear forward as though she’d misheard. “So you just . . . shot them?”

“It’s kind of my thing,” Shaye said.

Cyréne put a foot on the ground and slid off the table, “And, what does that mean, Tina?”

“My name isn’t Tina, it’s Shaye.”

“Alright,” Cyréne said calmly. She shifted her weight slightly, unnoticeably, into a defensive stance as a cold dread settled in her stomach. “What does that mean, Shaye?”

Brand crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “It means . . . she’s an assassin.”

Shaye met Cyréne’s eyes and waited for her to recoil, but she didn’t. She held Shaye’s gaze and kept her hands by her sides. Shaye watched her process the information and for the first time in a long time felt a twinge of fear.

“Shaye,” Cyréne said - her voice still deathly calm, “please answer me honestly. Were you part of what happened in Whiterun two nights ago?”

Shaye’s heart skipped a beat. “I was there, but it wasn’t my fault! I never even fired an arrow. It was a new recruit, and he just went crazy. We weren’t even on a contract; it was just supposed to be a training exercise.”

“You do realize that he aimed for my throat first.”

Shaye paled, “No, I did not realize that. I knew I had to get out of there the second he drew his bow, and that’s what I did.”

Cyréne nodded. “Alright, I’ll believe that. Now, tell me why you were on the carriage to Winterhold. Do you have a contract there?”

“No.”

Cyréne’s eyes saddened. “I see. Are you here to make an attempt on my life, then?”

Brand stood abruptly. His chair skidded back and topped over.

Shaye glared at him. “Just try it, you overgrown mutt, and see what happens.”

“What?” he said, mockingly. “Are you going to fuck me to death?”

“Brand, that’s enough!” Cyréne interjected. “Listen to what she has to say.”

“She’s a damn assassin Cyréne; you can’t trust what she has to say!”

Cyréne looked over at him. “And you deserve to die because you’re a werewolf, right?”

He quieted momentarily, but didn’t relax.

Cyréne looked back at the assassin in question. “Shaye?”

Shaye’s eyes were panic stricken. _By sithis, what am I doing? What am I saying? Why?_

Cyréne’s stepped foreards and gripped Shaye’s shoulder, staring deep into her eyes. “The truth is the only thing that can save you now, so tell it.”

“I was researching you as a potential target for assassination, there’s no contract out on you or anything. I just thought . . . that a high profile target would . . . improve things for my family. That’s the truth, I swear it.”

“Have you made your decision?”

“Yes.”

“And what is it?”

“That you’re too dangerous to take out. You have too many allies, and the potential retaliation could wipe us out. I’m crossing you off the list.”

Cyréne sighed in relief and to Shaye’s extreme shock, pulled her into a quick embrace and then stood back with her arms crossed. “Thank the gods. I’m so glad I don’t have to kill you.”

Shaye’s eyes narrowed. “Think you could take me, Cyréne?”

“In a heartbeat”

Shaye grinned, “That’s why I wouldn’t let you see me coming.”

“Fair enough,” Cyréne answered. “But if you ever try it, you better hope you don’t miss.”

Brand looked from one of them to the other. “Are you both out of your damn minds? I must be losing it. That cannot have just happened.”

Shaye cut her eyes at him, “Well we did rescue a potentially killer werewolf last night, so I’d say this is about normal for us.”

“Alright,” Cyréne said, “now, who were these people you killed.”

“I’m not sure, but they all had tons of Cure Disease potions on them and all of their weapons were made of silver.”

Cyréne and Brand exchanged a look that made Shaye very uncomfortable.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“They call themselves the Silver Hand. They’re a radical off-shoot from the Vigilants of Stendarr—“

“Wait,” Shaye interrupted, “ _more_ radical than the Vigilants?”

“Yes,” Cyréne continued. “They claim to be werewolf hunters, but they don’t hesitate to capture and torture anyone they run across, wolf or not. They are dangerous and show no mercy. They’re the reason Brand had that giant gash in his side.”

“We need to get out of here,” Shaye said.

Cyréne nodded. “I think our best bet is to make for the College. We’re not that far away, and if we stick to the main road, there will be guards on patrol by the time we’re halfway there.” She looked over at Shaye, “unless you think you’d be safer returning to your home.”

Shaye shook her head. “I can’t chance leading them there. I’m going with you.”

“Brand?”

“I’m with you two. If we do get attacked, it’s going to take all three of us to survive it. But what’s to keep them out of the College?”

“The gates are sealed with powerful magic, and even if they weren’t we could pick them off like sSkeevers while they were crossing the bridge.”

Shaye perked up suddenly, “Well there is one thing, dead men don’t ride horses, so we have transportation.”

Cyréne looked over at Brand again. “Don’t worry; I can cast a courage spell over one of them so you can ride.”

“Alright,” he said, “Let’s do this.”

“Shaye, what weapons can you use?” Cyréne asked.

“Um, basically just my bow and a dagger”

“What about you Brand?”

“I can use whatever we find, but I’d rather not have anything slower than a greatsword.”

“What about a bow?”

“Of course,” he snorted. “I’ll use a rock if I need to.”

Their search yielded a couple of iron axes and Imperial swords as well as an iron chest plate, boots and helmet that fit Brand fairly well. Shaye pulled her Brotherhood armor out of her bag and slipped into it. Cyréne pulled her cloak around her and hoped wards would be enough of a defense if they were engaged. They made their way out cautiously.

Cyréne cast a courage spell on the horses and then conjured Apollo and Janus. They looked at her expectantly.

“You’re both taking point against human and predator threats. Don’t engage any animal bigger than you – we need you at full strength. Go sniff those dead guys and then keep your noses to the ground for more like them. Sound the alarm if they’re near.”

The wolves sped off to investigate the dead Silver Hand. Apollo sniffed then and curled his lips back a grimace of disgust.

“Tell me about it,” Brand muttered.

Janus was business as usual and let out a snarl before returning to Cyréne. They made their way to the main road, with the wolves crossing paths as they circled forward and back, alert for threats. Winterhold was almost in sight when both wolves let out bone-chilling howls.

“Shit!” Cyréne cursed. “Do you see them?”

The snow was blowing so hard that it was difficult to see anything. Janus and Apollo came running up and formed a snarling wall of wolf behind the horses.

“They’re behind us!” Brand yelled.

An arrow whizzed by.

“I know when it’s time to run,” Shaye yelled, her voice almost drowned out by swirling wind and snarling wolves, “and it’s time to run!”

They kicked the horses forward and sped toward the town. Almost immediately, they began to pass guards who grabbed weapons and engaged their pursuers. Apollo was hot on the horses’ heels, but Janus couldn’t stand it. He raced back toward the enemy, and with a powerful spring from his back legs, ripped a rider off his horse and tore his throat out.

Cyréne missed his presence almost instantly. She spun her horse. “Janus!” He came racing back, satisfied with having downed at least one of them. Cyréne kicked her horse around again, but the delay had cost her precious time. She bit back a scream as an arrow pierced her shoulder. The second arrow got her horse in the flank and it went down. Her instinct was to scramble toward Winterhold, but if Vilkas had trained anything into her it was to never turn your back on an enemy. She flattened herself against the side of the steep cliff bordering the road, took a deep breath and swallowed a scream of agony as she snapped the arrow shaft in half and pulled the front part out of her shoulder. She cursed again when she noticed lingering traces of poison on the arrow head.

Two Silver Hand came thundering toward her position. They didn’t see her, and they certainly didn’t expect the rain of arcane fire that burnt them to a crisp. A third warrior was right behind them, and narrowly escaped the same fate. He shot her a murderous look and came galloping toward her with his sword drawn. Cyréne was running low on magika reserves. To buy herself some time she cast a fire rune right in front of his horse. It exploded and the horse reared up throwing the man to the ground. An arrow that she recognized whizzed by her and struck the man in the throat. A second one flew by and impaled him through the eye.

 _Shaye!_ Cyréne grinned.

Janus snarled and attacked him just for good measure.

Brand was riding back to her with Apollo on his heels and swung her up behind him. She looked back over her shoulder – woozy, vision beginning to blur -  and saw Apollo race past Janus with a howl and throw himself into an attack. Janus’s head snapped up and he ran after him. Cyréne could barely make out the scream of a horse and a rider spinning into retreat. Her stomach dropped. There was a witness; he’d seen all of them. If the wolves couldn’t bring him down . . .

She was getting too far away from them and they were forced to pull back. Janus strained against the pull snapping and snarling, but finally had to give in.

_They didn’t get him._

She sagged against Brand’s back and grasped the arm he reached around to her, willing herself to stay lucid, until they reached the college.

 


	18. Revelations

Two weeks after they had come running into the College with Cyréne barking orders to lock the place down, Brand, Shaye and Cyréne were starting to relax, slightly. No shady characters had been spotted and the college was peaceful, as usual. Being surrounded by powerful mages took the edge off a little too. Plus, now that she was home, Cyréne had her possessions. Arch-Mage robes, Savos's amulet and other items increased her magika reserves exponentially and Apollo and Janus were a constant presence.

Cyréne discussed the witness with Shaye and Brand behind closed doors. Shaye needed to get back to the Sanctuary, but Cyréne didn't want her to travel alone – so Shaye sent for an escort. An Argonian showed up a week later and they departed with Shaye promising to send a courier when they reached their destination. After Shaye's departure, Cyréne closed the doors to her quarters and sat down with Brand.

"Out with it," she said.

He told her everything and she immediately sent a message to Skjor. He and Aela arrived within a few days' time. Cyréne explained what had happened over the last month and the two Companions became more and more concerned.

"But that's not all," Cyréne said, in a hushed voice. "Brand wasn't given a choice about the beast blood. It was forced on him . . . by the Silver Hand."

Skjor's eyebrows shot up. "WHAT?!"

Cyréne nodded. "He was a sell-sword that someone hired – only that someone turned out to be working for the Silver Hand. And apparently, that someone is fairly high ranking, because Brand only worked for exclusive clients. It made him a perfect target, really. They used one of the captive wolves and forced the change on him. He said they wanted to study everything about the process and transformations, including whatever difficulties he had. After that, they released him in a controlled environment and practiced hunting him. He managed to escape a few months ago, but there was nowhere for him to go. They caught up with him two weeks later, and I'm sure you can imagine what happened next - weeks of torture. His injuries were very serious, and . . . disturbing."

Cyrene paused and took a deep breath before continuing.

"The Silver Hand also wanted to study what methods they could use to inflict the most pain. He escaped a second time and that's when our paths crossed. He's safe here for now, but this isn't a long term solution. He needs a pack to help him and protect him. He's drifting now. I don't think he's dealing with the call of the blood so much yet, because he was pretty much broken, but he's recovering quickly and he'll probably have to face it soon. I haven't asked him about this, but I was wondering if we could accept him into our pack. He has more valuable information on the Silver Hand than anyone. We all know that they know about the Companions, and we're kidding ourselves if we think they aren't going to strike at some point."

There was only silence from the two wolves.

"I think he would be a valuable addition," Aela said finally.

"Can he fight?" Skjor demanded.

"Well, I haven't exactly had a chance to spar with him, but he made a living as a very sought-after sell-sword. I'd say that means he can handle himself. And, he's as strong as Skyforge Steel. He was running full force on a broken ankle, with crushed ribs when we met."

There was another moment of silence, before Skjor spoke.

"Very well, bring him in and we'll see what he has to say."

Cyréne retrieved Brand from the library and briefed him on the situation as they headed back up the stairs.

"I hope you don't mind me calling them here without talking to you first," Cyréne said wearily.

Brand stopped their progress and looked over at her. "We'll see how it goes, but you and I haven't had much of a chance to talk about all of this . . . and I'm still not sure what you're all about."

Cyréne crossed her arms and looked at the floor. "You've mentioned this several times, Brand. Please explain what you mean."

He paused for a moment and then shook his head. "Maybe we should save this conversation until after we talk to your, uh . . ."

"Shield Siblings?"

"Yes, them"

"Fine," she said tiredly. "Do you have any questions before I introduce you?"

"Well, the obvious one. Why do you think they'll accept someone with my condition?"

"I'll let them answer that for you, but I wouldn't worry about it."

"Okay . . . then, what has to happen for me to become a Companion?"

"Well, after Aela and Skjor talk to you, you'll have to meet with the Harbinger, Kodlak Whitemane. He's a good man, like a father to me actually. He's the one who will decide if you can try to join."

"Wait, wait, wait," Brand said. "All of this is so he can decide if I can  _try_  to join."

Cyréne gave him an impatient look. "Yes, Brand, it's the Companions for Talos's sake, not some bandit clan."

He narrowed his eyes at her and she put a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. I'm just worn out, right now, and I've been worried about you and Shaye, and . . . just everything. After Kodlak decides your worthy – and I have no doubt he will, especially with the letter I'll send with you, you'll deal with Vilkas."

She spat out the last part and Brand raised an eyebrow. "And who is Vilkas?"

She sighed and bit back the description she wanted to give.

"Vilkas," she said with a huff, "is the best technical warrior I've met outside of General Tullius in the Legion. If we're talking the ins and outs of weapons and how to use them, he can train you. He studies battle plans and techniques relentlessly, and he can pick up on someone's fighting style and weaknesses very quickly, which makes him dangerous."

"I'm sensing a 'but' coming up here," Brand said, in interest.

Cyréne smiled. "But, he has a weakness."

"Everyone does," Brand interjected.

"Well, Vilkas's weakness is his temper, but I wouldn't recommend you try to exploit it when he tests your arm. First of all, he'll recognize it and secondly, you'll infuriate him and he'll make your life hell when you do get in."

"I've met his type," Brand frowned. "It sounds like you two have issues. Is that going to make it harder for me?"

Cyréne sighed dejectedly. "I hope not, but it may."

"What kind of issues are we talking, here?" Brand asked. "I'd like to know what I should be prepared for."

"Let's save this for that other conversation; they're waiting on us. Basically, you'll get in as a trainee and do some smaller jobs until Skjor decides you're ready for your trial. At that point you'll receive a bigger job and a member of the circle will go with you to make sure you fight well and honorably. If you make it past that you'll be in and you'll have a Shield-Sibling assigned to you for a while to help you adjust and bond with the family. However, that may not be an issue for you and you'll soon see why."

"Alright, let's go."

A few minutes later Cyréne entered her chambers with Brand behind her. He caught the scent and his eyes widened as soon as they walked in the room. He shot her a look of disbelief.

She nodded at him reassuringly and introduced him. Skjor looked him up and down for a moment and said nothing. Aela's brows rose just the faintest bit and her lips twitched once. Cyréne relaxed a little.  _Someone likes what they see._

Brand stood unflinchingly under their scrutiny. Finally Skjor looked at Cyréne and then back at Brand.

"Cyréne tells us you've had some trouble with the Silver Hand."

Brand nodded and gave a clipped explanation of his story. He got a now-familiar reaction of barely contained fury from the two warriors in front of him. It dawned on him that  _they_  were the reason Cyréne had such a strong reaction to his story. They were family and a threat was looming. Skjor asked him some additional questions about his history and abilities before looking to Aela who gave him her nod of approval, and then to Cyréne, just as a formality, who nodded as well.

"Very well," Skjor said, in his typical gruff manner. "I'm sure you've realized what we are by now."

He looked Brand in the eye and waited for him to nod before continuing.

"Normally, we would never consider allowing an outsider knowledge of our gift, or admission into our pack. The only way to join would be to be born into it. However, Cyrene is one of the few people whose judgment I trust enough to even talk to you. And, her recommendation will go a long way with the Harbinger."

Brand nodded again. Skjor gave Cyréne a hard look and then continued.

"What our sister, here, has not considered, is the danger you pose should you decide not to join us."

Cyréne stepped in front of Brand immediately. "Now, wait just a minute Skjor. This is Brand's choice, and you will not take it away from him."

His eye flashed a bright gold. "He needs to know the weight of his decision."

Cyréne squared her shoulders. "He is under my protection, here."

"You don't outrank  _me_  in the Circle, pup," Skjor growled.

"No, but I outrank you in this College. Politically speaking, you aren't even in Skyrim anymore, Skjor. Those gates wouldn't have opened for you without  _my_  word. This ground is mine, and _I_  rule it. I'm the alpha here, not you."

Aela's eyes widened and she took a step back from what she assumed was about to be one hell of a fight. Skjor glared at Cyréne for a moment. He looked ready to beat her into the ground, but she didn't flinch; if anything she became more aggressive. Suddenly he threw his head back and laughed.

"What the hell is so funny?" Cyréne demanded.

He stepped forward and wrapped and arm over her shoulders and patted her on the back.

"You are pup, you are. I'm damn proud of you. I always knew you had a fire burning in there somewhere. Maybe it's better you didn't take the blood – you'd have been a handful."

Brand cleared his throat and they looked over at him.

"I would like to join your pack. I'm a good fighter – one of the best in my field. I specialized in guarding and managing security for wealthy and politically important clients with lots of enemies. My services were demanding in excess of 10,000 septims before my capture."

"Why have we never heard of you, then?" Alea asked.

"In that line of work, the last thing you want is to attract attention. It just makes your clients a more likely target – the challenge of it and what not. They never even got to meet me until they made the first payment."

Aela smiled, "Impressive."

Skjor nodded. "Good. You may give Vilkas a run for his money."

"Oh great," Cyréne muttered.

"I'm sure he'll find Brand a valuable addition," Aela said, with typical calm.

"Good," Cyréne said dismissively. "Now, I've secured a room at the Frozen Hearth for you, or you can stay here. It's up to you."

"I think we'll stay there," Aela said with a smirk and a hot look toward Skjor.

"Okay, would you like to have dinner here? It's probably better not to . . . you know, given the recent trouble."

"We'll eat there too," Skjor said. "I'm ready to get away from all these damn mages."

"That reminds me," Cyréne said warily. "There will be two more additions to the pack should I return."

" _When_  you return," Aela corrected. "Who are they?"

Cyréne took a breath and concentrated. Skjor and Aela both flinched and stepped back when Janus and Apollo appeared. The wolves took a quick look around and then sat on either side of her at attention. Their tips of their ears topped her elbows.

Skjor gave her a look of disdain. "Other than being huge, what value do they possibly have to us, except as a mild distraction?"

Cyréne grinned. "Care for a demonstration?"

"What kind of demonstration?"

"Threaten me."

Skjor took a menacing step forward with a hand on his sword. Snarls straight from Oblivion sounded and both wolves got to their feet. Never one to back down, Skjor continued his advance with a snarl of his own.

Cyréne took a step back. "Disarm him," she said, "without injury. That means  _you_ , Janus" she added.

They didn't fight like normal wolves, and Skjor was not prepared for that, or their strength. Rather than trying to herd him into a corner, Janus made a move to spring for him, but at the last minute he stopped. Skjor's blade swung and Janus uncoiled and leapt over it without injury. His heavy weight caught Skjor by surprise and toppled him. Apollo hadn't been idle; as soon as Janus made his move he'd closed his jaws over the handle of Skjor's sword and was wrenching it back and forth in his hand. Janus made a lunge for Skjor's throat and he let go of the sword to hold him off. As soon as the tip of the sword hit the ground both of them backed off and Apollo trotted back to Cyréne dragging it like a puppy with a stick. Skjor got to his feet and pulled a dagger from his boot with a roar.

"Don't!" Cyréne yelled.

A few minutes later, Janus was glaring from the corner, while Cyréne repaired the almost crushed bone of Skjor's forearm and closed the huge bite.

"I'm glad you finally dropped the dagger," Cyréne grumbled.

"You should've named that one Vilkas," Skjor grumbled back.

Cyréne smirked. "No, Janus knows how to avoid getting stabbed."

Skjor roared in laughter for the second time that day and slapped his knee with his good hand. "I should have trained you myself," he grinned, "and brought some of that ferocity out a long time ago. We leave at daybreak tomorrow, new blood," he said to Brand, and then he and Aela took their leave.

Cyréne called Janus over and gave him a pat. "It's alright, he cheated."


	19. It's Not About You

Cyrene and Brand had a quiet dinner at a table in the corner of the College's kitchen and then returned to her quarters. Brand had done so well the first night of his recovery, that Cyrene was somewhat unprepared for the breakdown that followed it. He'd been having horrific nightmares and came awake screaming so often that Cyréne and Shaye took turns staying up reading by his bedside until Shaye left. It was clear that the outbursts both shamed him deeply and left him furious. Both women had learned quickly that he wanted no physical contact for hours and sometimes days after an episode. Cyrene found that especially heartbreaking, given his seemingly affectionate nature most of the time. Shaye took it in stride, and often found herself with a hand on Cyrene's arm, shaking her head in silence, to keep her from embracing Brand help him. They'd even argued heatedly about it one night.

"Let me go, Shaye! He needs me!" Cyrene had almost whined.

"No, he's a grown man, leave him be!"

"He's hurting, I need to-"

"What?! Fix him?!" Shaye growled.

Cyrene stopped short and the color drained from her face. "What? No!"

At that point Shaye's already fraying temper had snapped and she'd shoved Cyrene down roughly in a nearby chair. "Yes! That's exactly what you're trying to do! Listen up! You can't fix this, and you're a self-righteous cunt if you think you can-"

"Shaye!"

Shaye snarled and leaned over Cyrene; hands on the back of the chair. "I'm not finished! You are not qualified to try to fix this! You have to stop treating him like some charity case – like something's wrong with him!"

"I know there's nothing wrong with him, Shaye! He's hurting and I want to help him – I just . . . I don't know what to do, okay?!"

Shaye sighed and shoved Cyrene back when she tried to get up. She closed her eyes and tried to calm down. When she was calmer, she spoke quietly. "This is not it. This is the wrong thing to do, and he's not going to tell you it's wrong because he feels beholden to you. I . . . have some experience with this. Are you listening?"

Cyrene's eyes welled up and she nodded.

"Oh Sweet Sithis! See!" Shaye snapped, wiping at her friend's tears. "This! This has got to stop. How dare you feel sorry for me?!"

"Because I care about you, Idiot!" Cyrene said with a half sob half laugh.

Shaye gave her a sliver of a smile and grabbed her hands. "I know you do, Cyrene, I know you do. But you're making me into a victim, and I don't want to be that anymore. I'm strong. I survived. And you want to put me back in that place of being broken and vulnerable and victimized, and I don't need that shit! Neither does Brand! Do you understand?"

"That's not my intention at all!"

"But that's how it feels, and that's all that matters. Brand is not your 'problem', he's your friend, and he's a man – a strong one, and . . . I think, a good one. He's been through some shit, but he's got to get past it. He can't do that if you define him by it."

Cyrene's head dropped into her hands and her shoulder's shook. "Divines . . . I'm a failure as a friend."

Shaye rolled her eyes and ruffled Cyrene's hair with a grin. "No you aren't, you're just . . . you. Shake it off and get over yourself. This isn't about you, anyway."

Shaye's departure had left Cyréne feeling unexpectedly disheartened. She was feeling run-down without her new friend there to cheer her up. Her absence from the college had resulted in a backlog of work and she barely got a moment to herself.

She didn't want to abandon Brand, but she was too exhausted to stay up, so he'd been sleeping in the bed with her since Shaye left. More often than not they woke up wrapped around each other; driven together by a need for comfort and safety. They were both healing, or trying to, and each of them could see it clearly in the other. That, in itself, began to build the foundation for a deep friendship.

He was like her shadow now, and she understood why. He had nothing and no one, not even his identity anymore. He was drifting and he needed an anchor. Her heart went out to him. She knew all too well what it was like to be alone while surrounded by others. It had to be hard for him, to go from being in complete and utter control of his life, to having all control taken away, and then to being tossed about on the winds. She understood that too.

Her mind kept wandering back to the advance she'd made toward him at the fort, as one of her biggest failures. She'd thought throwing that big "if" out there made it safe, but looking back that was just stupid - and so unlike her. She wouldn't have continued, even if Shaye hadn't claimed him. What she'd been trying to do was . . . well she didn't know exactly what she'd been trying to do, but it didn't happen like it was supposed to.

"Hello in there," Brand said, waving a hand in front of her face.

"Sorry," she muttered. "There's a lot on my mind."

"There always is," he said dryly, "but I get that."

She looked down at her hands. "How did you do it, Brand? You had to have been under a huge amount of pressure with your work. How did you keep it together?"

"I loved it. Most of the time it didn't seem like work to me and I enjoyed the challenge. It didn't let me get very close to people though. There was always part of me that I kept closed off. Every client expected something different and I always had a part to play that was never quite me . . . kind of like you do."

Cyréne raised her eyes to his slowly. "What?"

"Watching you with the Companions, seeing you run this place, remembering how you were when we first met – all of it reminds me of myself. Everyone expects something different from you. Here, they expect you to have all the answers and to be diplomatic, but also a leader – so you are. I have a feeling the Companions expect you to be someone who gets things done, and fall in line and that's about it – so that's what you do. I don't know what the Jarl's expect of you, but I had enough high-ranking clients and contacts in Cyrodiil to know some of the things I heard about the war were about you. Tullius expected you to help win the damn thing for him, and you did. I didn't expect anything from you but grief. Somehow, you managed to help me too. Even your come-on at the fort helped. To hear you say that you wanted me made me feel like myself again, like the man I used to be instead of some worthless and abused dog to be used and pitied."

She reached for his hand. "I'm glad you told me that. You still are that man, Brand. I'm sorry I ever treated you as anything but that. And for the record, I don't think Shaye meant to come off the way she did. She always saw you for what you are."

He nodded, "I know. She's actually alright, once you get past the attitude. She's helped almost as much as she's groped me. My point is, though, it takes a certain talent to adapt the way you do, but it comes at a cost. You eventually lose sight of who you are." He squeezed her hand as his brow furrowed. "I don't want that to happen to you."

"It's already happened, Brand," she said softly. "It happened a long, long time ago. The person I was couldn't have handled the last years of my life. She would have broken. The only other choice was to bend. And the more I bent, the easier it got." Her voice drifted, "You start giving up little parts of yourself and you just think they're tiny compromises to make things simpler. Then, before you know it, some wolf whose life you just saved is asking you what your angle is while you're trying to comfort him."

He grinned. "Yeah, what an ass! Who was that guy?"

She smiled briefly. "I'm glad I met you." A tear slipped down her cheek. "No one understands. I don't even understand half the time. How did you keep from losing yourself?'

He shrugged and wiped the tear away with his thumb. "It happened a few times, but I was able to get away for a while and get my head on straight. You don't seem to have that luxury."

"You have no idea," she said. "The Dragonborn says he needs me, so that he can save the world."

Brand snorted, "Now that's a damn good line, right there. No woman in the world could refuse that."

She grinned. "He's serious, unfortunately."

"Saving the world is his job, not yours."

"I'll have you know I already saved it once – to hear some people tell it."

"Really?" he said with an eyebrow cocked.

She grinned, "Really."

Brand thought for a moment. "Do you believe he really needs your help?"

"I believe that he believes it, and the thing is," she hesitated, "he said he needs, um . . . me, not my help."

Brand scowled. "I'm sure he  _did_  say that. What exactly does he say he needs you  _for_?"

"Well, do you want to hear what he says, or what I think he means?"

"Both."

"Are you sure you want to start down this road with me, Brand. I haven't had a real friend to talk to in a very long time, and once I open up – I may dissolve into a ridiculous mess."

Brand winked and shot her a lopsided grin. "I can handle it."

"It could also end up being a very long talk."

"Come on." He led her over to the bed, and kicked off his boots before lying back with an arm behind his head and patting the bed beside him. "I'm not going anywhere until daybreak."


End file.
